


Sympathy for the Predators

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Art Patrons, Lucius Is Smug, M/M, Unrepentant Metaphors, flowery language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 76,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a patron of the arts. Lucius is Lucius. Both are predators. And both might find what they need in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pit Viper

**Author's Note:**

> This is still a WiP, but with only one chapter left.

  
_Seeking heat and warmth._  
  
The man stood with his legs shifted apart, his head canted to the side as he listened with commendable patience to the deadly dull rantings of Bedivere Rossetti. The man fancied himself a poet. Merlin had seen fit to make him a painter, and no more than that. When he allowed the brush in his hand to speak for him, Lucius found him quite tolerable. Take the canvas that hung on the wall behind Rossetti now. The sunburst of white in the center framed the witch bearing her throat in trust to the Muggle who had come to stab her to death. The details were perfect: the white shoulders framed by a slipping dark red velvet robe, the tumble of her golden hair, her wide and luminous blue eyes, the look of helpless lust on her enemy’s face.  
  
Of course, while he stared at her, her left hand, hidden from his sight, gripped her wand. But that detail merely added a certain piquancy to the picture. Lucius would have thought less of Rossetti without it.  
  
He admitted to being curious as to who could listen to Rossetti for so long, and drifted closer. Besides, the man seemed familiar, somehow, and stood with the confidence of someone long at home. But Lucius had attended every exhibition that included a Rossetti piece for the last six years, and he was sure he had never seen this man before.  
  
This man, and this piece of art. Lucius had an eye for beauty in more than paint, and he could see clearly, now, the lines of lean muscles in his target’s shoulders, the curling fall of his black hair that echoed the witch in the painting, the marks of quiet but good taste in his dark green robes. He held his head at an angle which afforded Lucius one of his simpler pleasures, that of admiring alertness. He knew already that this was someone who would sweep the room with a calm, assessing gaze, understanding the foibles of most he saw, underestimating none.  
  
Except those who chose to be underestimated—a game Lucius had never been interested in. Power, like beauty, was meant to be worn openly on the skin.  
  
Another step closer, and he would catch a glimpse of the man’s profile. That should tell him beyond a doubt who it was. Lucius knew the features of a thousand pure-blood families, the chins and lips of a hundred at least. And it had to be a scion of one of those families who could look like this.  
  
 _Perhaps young Claudius Tanton_? Lucius thought. _He has spent time out of the country, I know, and it would explain where he learned to listen to people like Rossetti. I hear Roman painters can be most tiresome._  
  
The alert head canted towards him. The eyes turned.  
  
Lucius caught his breath in pure appreciation of those eyes. Deep and stunning _green_ , one of the rarest of colors when paired with dark hair. He would still have admired them even had they been brown, but this made the familiar surge of desire to possess rush to his mouth. He swallowed the saliva gathering there long before it could form, of course. No one would be able to say that Lucius Malfoy was less than impeccably polite.  
  
“Mr. Malfoy.”   
  
The voice was deep and light at the same time, like the growl of a lion braced for a strike. Lucius could admire those qualities, but the tone was wrong. The owner of the voice sounded displeased. Yet how could that be, when Lucius must be on good terms with his family? He had almost no enemies left, and none among the only people who could have given this young man his looks.  
  
Then he made out, for the first time, the line of a faded scar through the fringe.  
  
Lucius stood still. It was the best way to catch his balance and to acknowledge his mistake at the same time. He waited, studying the face, willing those beautiful features to melt back into the ordinary, scrawny ones of the boy known as Harry Potter.  
  
They did not. It was Potter, assuredly Potter—the years-old fashion of wearing scars in imitation of the hero had died a quick and violent death—but the assurance and the charisma he carried around him seemed to be his natural possessions now.  
  
Not inheritance. Lucius had known many Potters, from portraits and wizarding photographs if not from life. He had seen the Mudblood mother. Potter had taken certain components from each of them and blended them together like Rowan Fedele creating a new and experimental style of sculpture.  
  
The results should have been grotesque. Rather like Fedele’s statues, they were not. Lucius did not comprehend why not.  
  
“I reckon I shouldn’t have counted on the common politeness of a response.”  
  
Potter’s voice rasped over Lucius’s mood like fangs. He was tense, his eyes traveling across Lucius’s body not hastily but with ample speed, in a way that showed he could defend himself but would not be frantic. Lucius gave him a lazy smile and stepped closer, decided on his answer to this odd collection of facts at last.  
  
“Mr. Potter. I am…startled. Surely you must give people a moment to recover from seeing you.”  
  
“I don’t have the fame anymore to justify your saying that,” Potter snapped right back. “And I _never_ had the gullibility.”  
  
Lucius thought of a young boy who had stood in front of him defiantly after freeing his house-elf, and opened his mouth to say the words that that boy deserved. But Potter stood taller as though to meet an attack, and the past melted and swirled into power and beauty. Lucius had met an illusionist once who could raise trees of silver and emerald from specks of dust with what looked like no more than a flick of his hand, and before the man died, he had taught Lucius the trick.  
  
Those trees could not compare with what he saw in Potter’s face.  
  
The little boy was dead. Lucius was interested in dealing with the man.  
  
“It is not the fame that makes you so stunning,” he said, softly, knowing that his honesty would earn him more points with Potter than anything else could.  
  
Potter squinted at him. Lucius tried to look truthful. But his face had little practice in that expression, and he knew he should not feel as irritated as he did when Potter snorted and turned back to Rossetti, not even bothering with a response.  
  
Apparently, Rossetti had been waiting for that. “You _need_ to let me paint your portrait,” he told Potter, leaning towards him. Lucius curled his lip. He did not admire the juxtaposition of their bodies. Rossetti was too tall, his coloring too violent, to appeal to any admirer of art. “What happens if you die tomorrow, and we have no exact likeness of what our hero looks like?”  
  
“Do you know how many photographs there are of me?” Potter rolled his eyes. “The wizarding public could be supplied for a thousand years out of that. Besides, what they see when they look at me isn’t an exact likeness anyway.”  
  
Lucius breathed slowly, because to do otherwise would be to break the exquisite delight settling around him like a web of dew and light. _There_ was an entrance to Potter’s soul, unguarded. That no one had stormed it before now simply proved that no one else in wizarding society had the subtlety of perception that Lucius had.  
  
Potter was not seen as he should be. Everyone approached him with awe shining in their eyes like a light set to blind, and so of course they saw only what could filter through that awe. Why should Potter respond to compliments? He must suspect that half the force of those compliments came from the imagination of the person talking to him, the person who had already invested him with more glory than killing a dozen Dark Lords was worth.  
  
He wanted to be admired, to be seen, for _himself_. It was a natural desire. Lucius had felt it at times, but, older and wiser in the ways of victory than Potter, he knew he could not hope to gratify it except with someone like Narcissa.   
  
Potter had lost his Weasley around the same time he had lost Narcissa, if Lucius remembered correctly, almost seven years ago. But he had not filled the time since with lovers. The papers could say he had all they liked. Now that Lucius had seen him again, he knew the tone of the _Prophet_ stories was all wrong. Those who claimed to have slept with him would have spoken with more reverence, in softer tones, if they had been allowed to touch all that beauty shining naked like a dragon’s hoard.  
  
Why should Potter take someone to bed who would rather make love to a half-seen image of an hero than to _him_?  
  
Lucius cocked his head at his own thoughts, half-amused that he had already formed the intention of taking Potter to bed instead of looking at him or engaging him in conversation. Either would have been a reasonable reaction to seeing him unshielded. Where did the deeper response come from?  
  
But, unusually for a pure-blood, Lucius had always been more interested in destinations and process than in origins. It was enough that he felt the desire, and that it was as true as an emerald. He laid the question of _why_ aside for the time being and stepped forwards far enough that Rossetti and Potter had to acknowledge him.  
  
Rossetti did it with an open stare. He had wanted to paint Lucius, too, at one time. Lucius had refused, but he could see the legacy of Rossetti’s fascination in the flowing golden hair of the witch in this picture, and many other images.   
  
Potter set his jaw, but also looked at Lucius. He was old enough to understand that ignoring someone would make him seem childish, Lucius thought approvingly. Good. It distanced him still further from the demented child he had once been.  
  
“If I might interrupt and give my opinion?” Lucius extended his cane between them as if he intended that the mouth of the carved snake’s head should speak for him. Potter studied it with loathing and a twitch of respect that he couldn’t conceal. He knew fine workmanship, then. Another point in his favor. “I think our Mr. Potter does indeed require a portrait—”  
  
“I _told_ you, Harry,” Rossetti said smugly, with a familiarity that Lucius knew in his flesh he had not earned.  
  
Potter, meanwhile, gave Lucius a look of such steady hatred that he knew he had mistaken his intentions. Lucius bowed his head and continued, “To attempt to capture and tame that fire about him that is uncatchable and tameless. Like all great art, it will be only a fleeting edge of that burning shadow we call inspiration. And the portrait should hang in a private collection, not in the open. The public feeds on their countless images of the Savior, as Mr. Potter has put it. Let them be contented.”  
  
Potter narrowed his eyes until they seemed likely to vanish. When he spoke, his voice burred and snagged. Lucius enjoyed even that, which told him how very far he had gone in the direction of admiration. “A portrait to hang in your collection, you mean.”  
  
Lucius held Potter’s eyes, enjoying the way he clenched his fists as if he would struggle and widened his eyes again as if he couldn’t look away. “I can afford it,” he said, and invested the words with all the depth of meaning he could.  
  
Potter broke the tableau between them with a bitter snort and a shake of his head. “Have it painted, then,” he said, and turned away. “I’m sure _Bedivere_ has stared at me long enough to be able to paint me from memory.” And he stalked away into the crowd as if he imagined that could hide him.  
  
Lucius gazed after him, feeling the heaviness of his own eyes, the unmistakable languor in his limbs. He felt as if he had just rolled out of bed to gaze down at his sleeping lover. He had never encountered that feeling before from simply observing someone he intended to sleep with.  
  
 _Perhaps the feeling will stale in a short time,_ he thought, as he turned to speak with Rossetti, who was eager to secure the commission. _Novelties pale so quickly._  
  
But he had stood and spoken to Potter for five minutes, gazed at him for ten, and that beauty was still like a needle pressed against his throat. He thought the desire might last longer than that.  
  
*  
  
Harry ground his teeth as he walked past portraits and statues, busts and delicate mosaics of river stones and ivory, murals and miniatures. He shouldn’t have allowed Malfoy to get under his skin so much. He told himself that repeatedly until he finally ducked into an alcove off to the side of the vast room and closed his eyes in an attempt to calm down.  
  
Yes, he shouldn’t have allowed that. But he couldn’t _help_ it. The smug, smiling, silky, sleek Lucius Malfoy was a symbol of all that was wrong with the Ministry, everything that had finally driven Harry away from the job as an Auror that he had thought would bring him happiness and satisfaction.  
  
Harry had tried. He really had. He had tried to be happy in an endless row of doors that all looked the same, in crowded offices, in meetings where only the officious paper-pushers listened to the Head Auror. He was doing important work, he thought. And even if he didn’t catch a Dark wizard every day, he was still close to the center of wizarding Britain, where everyone powerful came and bargains and laws hatched. He could be aware of bad things before they happened and counter them.  
  
Or he could try to.  
  
He had understood, long before he saw the bitterness become a permanent part of Hermione’s face, that change in the Ministry was an illusion. The powerful were at the top of the hierarchy and intended to stay there. Hermione couldn’t win rights for house-elves. Harry couldn’t ensure that Death Eaters who had pure-blood families and enough money to bribe the Wizengamot stayed in Azkaban. Ron couldn’t earn respect from people who would always see him as the son of Arthur Weasley, whom they despised.   
  
What they’d done in the war, and what they’d promised themselves they would do, had never mattered.  
  
Worse, the people Harry sometimes met who listened to his stories and told him with serious faces that things _could_ change always turned out to be wankers who merely wanted to use the power of the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry learned to recognize them as predators. Some roared like lions, intending to make him part of their pride by force. Some howled like wolves and wanted to involve him in endless games of useless posturing, which would always end with him licking their feet.  
  
Some were pit vipers, who charmed him close and then tried to sink their fangs into his throat. Those were the ones who wanted to sleep with him.  
  
Lucius Malfoy was like that.  
  
Harry sighed and swore softly. He didn’t _understand_ people like that. Yes, he had the scar on his forehead, and yes, he had the glasses, and yes, he had the hair that “expressed his untamed nature,” as the _Daily Prophet_ liked to put it. He looked like the icon of Harry Potter they carried in their heads.  
  
But if they were so obsessed with his appearance, couldn’t they use Polyjuice or glamours and get their fantasies fulfilled that way? Harry was sure some of these people—well, a few of them—had partners who loved them enough to say all the right things and act like the Harry Potter of their dreams.  
  
They would have been disappointed in him if they’d ever had him. He wasn’t a madly skilled lover. They could imagine someone who was. They would be disappointed with the reality.  
  
Harry smoothed a hand over his face. Now Rossetti would paint the bloody portrait, and then Lucius Malfoy could brag to all those who still trailed after him, tongues attached to his robes, that he had it.  
  
Then Harry rolled his eyes and stepped out of the alcove. Why was he spending so much thought on this? Malfoy didn’t deserve it. Harry was here to admire the new art, but behind that was a deeper purpose. He knew now that Rossetti wasn’t the sort of artist he wanted.  
  
Someone else here was.  
  
He moved slowly among the displays, pausing to stop and chat when he saw someone he knew—six years of being involved in the art world had netted him a large number of acquaintances—until he reached his destination. A Muggleborn witch stood scowling at her painting of a woman with a long green robe on descending into the sea. The woman was graceful, the curling seafoam looked real, but Harry knew that this particular artist wouldn’t be satisfied unless she had somehow managed to make the picture look _more_ real than reality.  
  
“Risa,” he said.  
  
Risa Turner nodded in acknowledgment, but didn’t face him. “There should have been something else,” she murmured. “A color I could have used but didn’t. A curl here, a curl there...I wonder…” She snatched up a brush that lay beside the painting and looked around as though she expected a palette to materialize out of the air.  
  
Harry moved up beside her so he could see her face. Risa was a few years younger than he was, with a sharp nose and eyes that made her look as though she’d been around for decades and seen dunderheads come and go. Harry had the feeling she and Professor Snape would have got along quite well.  
  
“It looks wonderful,” he said. “You know that.”  
  
“But it’s not _enough_.” Risa rapped the brush against her wrist, and then paused and stared down, apparently enraptured by the bump of her own wristbone.   
  
Harry made sure to hide his smile. Risa was touchier than most of the other artists he knew, half-conscious of what she looked like in the eyes of people who didn’t spend their days covered in paint. “Would anything be enough for you?” he asked.  
  
“Two years to work on my painting,” Risa said, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder and frowning at the painting again. “Without having to sell anything except what I wanted to, and with the ability to take on students and teach them the way people _should_ be taught, if they’re going to transfer the world to the canvas.” She leaned in to touch the glimpse of curved silver shore that lay, hardly visible, behind the seafoam. “The bloody moon,” she said softly. “That’s it. I should have showed the moon’s presence more clearly.”  
  
Harry didn’t know exactly what the moon could have to do with the seashore, but he didn’t entirely care. Risa was one of a very few artists he knew who not only was free of the Ministry, but showed no interest in their patronage. She wanted to create, and then she wanted others to admire what she had made. She _demanded_ their admiration. She wouldn’t, or couldn’t, work to order, unless someone expressed a wish for a painting that she had already begun.  
  
“What if you could have that?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Yes, it would be nice of you if you would go back to my flat and fetch the paint I’ll need to make the moon,” Risa said distractedly, tilting her head to the side and squinting with her eyes almost shut. “As well as those moon studies I’ll need.”  
  
“I meant,” Harry said, letting the smile have free rein since Risa wasn’t looking, “if you could have the time and the room to train your students and to work, without having to pay for anything.”  
  
Risa whipped around to face him, staring. The stare went on for so long that Harry became sure he’d offended her somehow and she wouldn’t accept his offer. He’d done that more than once in the past before he and Risa had managed to settle into a comfortable partnership of creator and admirer.  
  
“I’d heard about that,” Risa whispered at last. “That you were a patron sometimes, and the best kind, because you didn’t demand anything, you just gave.”  
  
 _It’s no wonder she never got along with the Ministry_ , Harry thought, barely refraining from laughter.  
  
“But I thought you only supported political artists,” Risa said, extending the brush towards him and tracing the curve of his shoulder in the air. “The kind who would make work that spoke against the Ministry.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “Sometimes, yes, but I also support people who want to be independent and can’t be, people who are producing the sort of art the Ministry ignores. I wanted to be sure that you were a steady enough worker before I made the offer to you, though.”  
  
Risa snorted. “Those pictures that you saw unfinished were all apprentice pieces,” she said. “I’m a steady worker now.” She looked again at the woman stepping into the seafoam, and this time she seemed to have forgotten all her impatience with its imperfections. Harry had seen mothers look at children less tenderly. “Or do you think I could have completed _that_ if I wasn’t?”  
  
“I thought so,” Harry said. “So, would you accept the offer?”  
  
“There are no idiots here,” Risa said. “Except you, for thinking that I wouldn’t leap onto it right away.”  
  
“Sometimes people have concerns about independence—”  
  
“Those idiots are somewhere else, I told you.” Risa leaned towards him, eyes shining. “I know you. I trust you. What were you thinking of?”  
  
Harry began to discuss possible options for a studio with some relief. He hadn’t offended Risa, and he finally had something else to do with his money, which weighed on him like a golden yoke when he didn’t use it.  
  
It was ridiculous, how much money he had. The Black vaults and the Potter ones combined made a fortune much larger than a single person could ever spend—except if the person was a Malfoy, perhaps—and somehow, Harry had found himself the heir to the Lestrange vaults when all the paperwork was laid out. It seemed that Bellatrix, mad as she had been, had assumed that Regulus Black had survived somewhere and had directed that her fortune and her husband’s were to pass to him if they both died. Rabastan had been killed shortly after she had, and when the goblins couldn’t find any trace of Regulus’s survival, they had decided that it should simply go back into the common Black fortune.  
  
Those vaults had been the only ones Harry was happy to accept. It made a vicious smile come to his face, still, when he thought about what Bellatrix had probably experienced, if the dead were capable of seeing what the living did.  
  
The smile always slid off his face when he remembered the other reasons that he had to hope for the eyes of the dead.  
  
The bargain with Risa concluded, Harry turned away and walked towards the front doors. The exhibition was in a huge, empty hall, built since the war by the contributions of pure-blood families who wanted to show how “sorry” they were that they had supported Voldemort.   
  
Harry felt his skin prickle every time he walked through it, but at least few of the sponsors ever actually appeared here.  
  
 _Except Malfoy._  
  
Because he was as curious as the next wizard, Harry paused and glanced over his shoulder when he reached the doors. Had Malfoy left? Or would Harry see him involved in a conversation with someone else who had escaped the harsh punishments they should have had after the war, tapping wineglasses together with thin and evil smiles?  
  
It turned out to be neither. Malfoy stood next to a silver statue of a stalking leopard, his eyes fastened on Harry and his smile smug and complacent.  
  
 _Bastard’s probably been standing there for half an hour, just to pose_ , Harry thought in annoyance, and went home.


	2. Tiger

  
_Stalking, hidden, in the grass._  
  
“I never thought you one to be interested in that rag, Father.”  
  
Lucius smiled without lifting his eyes from the papers spread out in front of him. Draco had doubtless seen the headline of the _Quibbler_ , which would be visible from the doorway of the library. Lucius reached out and adjusted the nearest paper in a leisurely fashion, so that he could see the photograph of Potter standing in the doorway of the Ministry better.  
  
“I do not think you have learned everything there is to be known about me yet, Draco,” he said.  
  
There was a long hesitation after that. His son relied on knowing Lucius’s moods, but he exhibited no great skill in reading them. He would be sifting this particular sentence through his mind, looking for various ways that it could become a threat.  
  
Lucius envisioned the words tumbling through the sand of Draco’s thoughts, being so coated with it that they would become part of his mind and not part of Lucius’s at last. Lucius was content that it should be so. He had long since ceased to influence his son with direct punishments and touches to the reins. Draco had to stand forth, independent, and cast his own shadow as part of the Malfoy forest. Lucius took care only that the tree he had rooted in fertile soil should not grow taller than his own.  
  
“Well, all right,” Draco said, shoving the thing he couldn’t understand behind him into the distance, as he often did. He pushed himself away from the doorway and came further into the room. Lucius did not glance up, but he knew that the expression on Draco’s face would be at once conciliating and challenging, the look of a wolf who did not—yet—feel himself ready to attack the pack leader. “I’m going to France for a month.”  
  
“Are you?” Lucius felt interested enough now to lean back in the chair and look up at his son, resting one hand on the desk. Draco shone in the dimness of the library; Lucius preferred fire to read by, for the uncertain gleams and shadows it threw as much as for the warmth. But, Lucius had to admit, his son did not shine as much as Potter. The eleven years since the war had done much for Draco, but they had not transformed him completely. “Business?”  
  
Draco smirked slightly. “Pleasure. Blaise’s half-sister is going to be there, and, well…” He spread his hands elaborately.  
  
Lucius nodded. Blaise Zabini had discovered he had a half-sister named Ellen Steele some years ago, fathered by the same unfortunate man who had sired him and died at his mother’s hands, and she and Draco had charmed each other immediately. Lucius thought his son had conducted the affair with admirable discretion; Mrs. Steele’s husband thought _he_ was the reason that Draco took such care to attend on them in France. Thus, Lucius had nothing to complain of.  
  
“Enjoy yourself, my son.” Lucius turned back to the photograph in front of him, ignoring the article that went along with it. Yes, Potter had made a speech about not being able to trust the Ministry to be free of corruption, but that meant little or nothing. What did was the look on Potter’s face in the photograph. Lucius had first seen Potter as a work of art, and he would continue thinking of him that way, because it amused him.  
  
“Father? What are you looking at?”  
  
There was a note of uncertainty in Draco’s voice that many might have found endearing. Lucius did not especially enjoy it. Such uncertainty usually preceded one of the tantrums Draco threw when he found out that his father did not intend to gratify one of his tiny desires.  
  
“Art,” Lucius said, and tilted his head to the side. That did not always bring things into focus, but it did now. He could see the stubbornness deep in Potter’s eyes, the courage in the way he held his head, even the half-tamed wildness in the tumble of dark hair, though he did not wear it as long in this picture as Lucius had seen it at the exhibition last night. Lucius sighed slowly, a bare motion of breath through parted lips. He could imagine reaching out and placing one hand on that solid shoulder, the way Potter would draw in his breath and shift under the touch, uncomfortable but drawn despite himself—  
  
“Potter isn’t _art_.”  
  
Lucius stopped, his eyes locked in place, his imagination dancing the last steps of the dance that he had begun to construct with Potter. He reminded himself that Potter was not present, and so he had not lost control of the situation the way he would have had Draco made that childish outburst in the other man’s presence.  
  
But the interjection had offended him badly enough that, when he lifted his eyes and fastened them on Draco’s face, his son paled and took a quick step backwards.  
  
“If I say he is,” Lucius said, his voice distant and soft, “then he is.”  
  
Draco shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself as though it had suddenly started to snow. “Do you need new artwork?” he asked desperately. “I could look for pieces in France. I know that de Mann is supposed to have returned to public life. Do you want one of his sculptures? Or there’s Madame Lasalle. I could ask her to come back and perform a private dance for you…”  
  
Lucius looked at him. It was enough to make the words dry like spit in Draco’s throat. He bobbed his head and backed away.  
  
“I will acquire the art I wish to acquire,” Lucius said. He made sure that his voice did not express anything that he would have wished unexpressed. Still, it was important for Draco to understand how things would be. “In the way I wish to acquire it.”  
  
“I—yes, of course, Father.” Draco had recovered enough to sweep him a bow, his eyes bright with resentment. “No one said that you shouldn’t.”  
  
Lucius checked a sigh. His sighs around other people were for the purposes of theater only, small sounds that could stir the course of politics or art in new directions for several months. He did not sigh in relief, or exasperation. One should have more control of one’s breath than that.   
  
“I do not enjoy banter this morning, Draco,” he said. “Leave.”  
  
Draco stepped out of the room, flashing him one last look. He seemed to believe it was unfair that Lucius had not only survived the war, but survived his mother’s death, and still continued to exist as the head of the Malfoy line and fortune. Lucius knew that Draco’s visions of the future had included complete independence and wealth while he was still young.  
  
 _Never mind that the important thing about youth is how it is used, and not how it is enjoyed_ , Lucius thought, turning back to the photograph in front of him. He used one finger to trace the curve of Potter’s cheek, moving it above the photograph, not touching it. He did not wish to touch until he was certain of his reception.  
  
Potter’s eyes blazed with a melancholy, irate fire, and his stance was not unlike the one Lucius had seen him use last night when confronting Rossetti. He would defy the whole of the Ministry to conquer him, even if it tried.  
  
Lucius let his eyelids fall to half-mast over his eyes. He felt so much excitement, simply sitting there at the table and studying a photograph, that it was almost painful.  
  
This was not the boy he had known. Although he looked at the pictures now, he had read the articles, and he knew Potter had left the Ministry in rage and disgust to encourage political projects elsewhere, far from the centers of power.  
  
Because Lucius had always preferred the centers did not mean he could afford to ignore the margins.  
  
And now he would hunt them with particular eagerness, knowing the tempting prey that awaited him there.  
  
*  
  
“Why did I _take_ this job?”  
  
Harry made a sympathetic noise and put Hermione’s drink down in front of her. It had been his turn to dodge through the crowd that was jammed into the Broken Barrel tonight, including the people who assumed that seeing the scar on his forehead gave them the right to touch him. Harry had perfected a glare that sent most of his “admirers” rocking back on their heels, but it didn’t always work on drunken ones.  
  
“I don’t know,” he said, sitting down and sipping at his own drink. The Dragons’ Breath, made of Firewhisky combined with some secret ingredient that always enflamed his throat, hit hard enough that he grunted. But it was just what he wanted after a long week in which he’d had to deal with countless letters begging him to give speeches, take various jobs, support causes and projects that sounded like little more than attempts to increase pure-blood wealth, and buy art that was ugly. Not to mention the usual mixture of politely-worded pleas from the Ministry to come back and rejoin the Aurors and insane love letters. “But I think the real question is: Why are you still there?”  
  
Hermione leaned back in her chair and sighed. Harry had already cast a spell that enabled him to pick out her voice from the background noise, luckily, or he couldn’t have heard her with even that small amount of extra distance between them. “I thought I could make a difference,” she said. “You see how that turned out.” She sipped from her drink again and coughed.  
  
“That answers your question, but not mine,” Harry said, smiling when Hermione scowled at him. She opened her mouth to answer, but the table shook then and their third flung himself into the chair next to Hermione.  
  
“Sorry I’m late.”  
  
Harry grinned at Ron. He had a burn mark on one cheek, and the hair on the left side of his head stood up in a series of scarlet spikes. Hermione rolled her eyes and cast a spell at the hair. It started to flatten down, then straightened up again with a small buzzing noise. Hermione blinked. “What _happened_?”  
  
“Combination of Shield Charms and Blasting Curse hitting at the same time,” Ron grumbled, and lifted the drink he must have bought on the way to his mouth. Harry shuddered as he watched Ron practically inhale the wash of amber liquid that stank like a sewer. _Well, if he wants to drink it, that’s his problem_. “Why Arturo had to cast _Protego_ at my head I’ll never know. I think he panicked.”  
  
“But Shield Charms and Blasting Curses couldn’t do that.” Hermione tried another charm, and this time the hair turned slowly blue, but didn’t otherwise change.  
  
“Tell that to my head,” Ron said gloomily. “I heard both incantations.”  
  
While Hermione and Ron bickered comfortably over what was possible when Shield Charms and Blasting Curses collided and whether they should just give up and use a glamour on Ron’s hair, Harry took another drink and smiled at them both. Bitter or not, disillusioned with the grand lives they thought they would have after the war or not, these were still his best friends, and he loved them.  
  
Ron had stayed in the Aurors, but he’d long since given up thinking that he would make much of an impact. He hunted down Dark wizards, but for the most part they’d only stolen cursed items that no sane wizard would want back anyway. He put up with the corruption there by ignoring it.  
  
Hermione was still fighting. It seemed that every time she dragged another official who’d accepted bribes or secretary who’d abused house-elves out into the open, though, someone did something to hush up the resultant mess. Harry thought they’d have sacked Hermione long ago if she wasn’t a war heroine and didn’t also do genuinely useful work for the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures.  
  
Harry could understand why they were doing what they did, but not why they stayed with the Ministry.  
  
On the other hand, trying to argue them out of staying with the Ministry just led to Hermione pointing out that you couldn’t free house-elves by supporting art, and Ron complaining that he would have enjoyed the Aurors a lot more if Harry hadn’t left. They all had their subjects that were sacrosanct, and one of the reasons their friendship had survived as long as it had was that they knew when to back off.  
  
A puff of smoke clouded Harry’s view across the table for a moment, and he blinked hard to clear it away. When it was gone, he could see that Ron’s hair lay flat on his head and was its normal color again. The only problem was that it looked as stiff as wire. Ron touched it and made a disgusted face.  
  
“Don’t ask me for better results than that.” Hermione slipped her wand into her sleeve. “If Arturo can’t have better aim or less paranoia than he does, it’s not my fault.”  
  
“No.” Ron picked up his drink and sipped at it. “It’s Harry’s.”  
  
“What?” Harry squawked, leaning forwards across the table. “No, it’s _not_ my fault that he’s an idiot.”  
  
“If you had stayed,” Ron said, “then I would have the partner I was supposed to have.”  
  
Harry felt his mouth tighten, but he didn’t think Ron was completely serious, so he shook his head and kept his voice as light as the rain falling outside right now. “Imagine how much trouble you saved because I didn’t stay, Ron. This way, you’re not dragged up before the Head Auror every time your partner does something stupid. You just have to go visit the Healers.”  
  
“That’s not an improvement.” Ron sucked moodily at the lip of his drink, eyes never leaving Harry’s face.  
  
 _Perhaps this is more serious than I thought it_. Harry sat up. “You know why I couldn’t stay,” he said quietly. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”  
  
“What are you changing now?” Hermione countered.  
  
“What are you?” Harry asked.  
  
Hermione sighed and shut her eyes. “I suppose I deserve that,” she whispered. “But, Harry, it hurts me to see the kind of life you’re drifting through, the way that you never make contact with anyone.”  
  
Harry stared at her, baffled. It was true they hadn’t met many of his artist friends, but they knew Risa Turner and Giles Burne-Jones, and they’d heard Harry talk about most of the others. “I know plenty of people,” he said. “I’ve supported several different artists so they can make their own work without having to take commissions or look for patrons, and I’m about to start supporting another. Risa, you remember her? There are a lot of pictures and statues and songs in the world because of me.”  
  
Hermione toyed with her glass and exchanged several dozen glances with Ron, it seemed, in the space of a few minutes. Harry could almost see them tossing the responsibility of talking to him back and forth like a poisoned Galleon. The air was full of silent _You do it. No, you do it_ exchanges.  
  
That told him what it would be about long before Hermione took up the gauntlet and turned to him with a sad face.  
  
“You haven’t dated anyone since Ginny died,” she whispered. “I know those rumors in the _Daily Prophet_ are only that. You’re not connecting with anyone new, Harry. Not in the deepest way, not in the way that really matters.”  
  
Harry shut his eyes and clenched his hand on the table, refusing to let his anger get the better of him. Hermione was only speaking out of concern. He knew that. And she couldn’t really understand, because she hadn’t _needed_ to find someone new, someone she hadn’t met at Hogwarts; she’d had Ron for decades.   
  
Getting angry with his best friends would accomplish nothing, because it wasn’t really _them_ he was angry with. Instead, he would try one more time to explain the real reason he hadn’t accepted anyone new.  
  
“She died saving my life,” he said carefully, opening his eyes. “There’s no way that I can forget that, or diminish the debt I owe her.”  
  
“I loved my sister, too, Harry,” Ron said, leaning across the table to put a hand on his arm. “But she wouldn’t have wanted me, or you, to stop living.”  
  
Harry glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “I _do_ still live. I have friends, I socialize with people, I have hobbies. Quidditch and ranting about the Ministry,” he added, when he saw Hermione opening her mouth to ask what hobbies. “And finding artists to support. If I made a decision about who I wanted to date and decided it should be a permanent one, that’s my business.”  
  
“But most people don’t do that,” Hermione said.  
  
“ _Normal_ people don’t do that,” Ron added.  
  
Hermione glared at Ron and punched him under the ribs, but Harry smiled and shook his head. He understood why his best mate had said that, and it was the kind of thing that Hermione was thinking, though not what she’d say aloud.  
  
“You’re right,” he said. “I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to be normal, and other people’s attempts to force me into that mold weren’t very satisfying. So this is only one more way I’m different among all the rest.”  
  
“If the only reason that you’re not sleeping with anyone is loyalty to Ginny, though,” Hermione said, “I think that’s misguided.”  
  
“It’s not loyalty,” Harry said. “It’s a way to honor her, to remember her as she was.” He had to close his eyes before he could say the next words. “I loved her, Hermione. And I’m never going to find someone like her. You _know_ what the people who want to sleep with me are like.”  
  
“Oh, Harry.” Hermione’s voice was soft in an instant, and she patted his arm.  
  
“To Ginny,” Ron said, seizing his drink and lifting it.  
  
Harry smiled and touched his glass to Ron’s, joined an instant later by Hermione’s. _These_ were his best friends, the best part of his life. There was no reason for him to look further.  
  
*  
  
 _Interesting._  
  
Lucius leaned back in his chair and toyed with his glass. He was surrounded by a Complete Disillusionment Charm, a stronger version of the simple spell that he doubted either Potter or his friends would know. The one he had been uncertain of was the Auror-trained Weasley, but he had looked at Lucius’s table and let his gaze sweep onwards. It was well.  
  
Lucius had gained the table by the simple expedient of coming in earlier and then appearing to vanish. A subtle Repelling Hex kept anyone from trying to sit at the table or the servers from coming near it, assuming that they cleaned the tables in this place.  
  
Lucius curled his lip at the thought. Truly, this was where Potter preferred to spend the few precious hours that he had to meet with his friends?  
  
But the more he looked around, the more Lucius could appreciate the—understated—lure of the Broken Barrel. It was ordinary, loud and bustling and dirty. It was a place where life flowed so fast and the people who swam in the stream were so occupied with their own concerns that Lucius doubted they would notice even a celebrity like Potter.  
  
Besides, there was one unexpected benefit. His surroundings made Potter shine like a Galleon cast down in dust, or a statue by Willow Yeats perched unexpectedly on a street corner.  
  
Lucius leaned forwards again and studied Potter, but his interactions with his friends were falling into more regular patterns, ones that Lucius had noted the last time he had observed him. He felt free to let his mind drift across the fields of newly-gained knowledge and pluck the most useful facts.  
  
Potter still mourned his dead lover, then. That was good. It meant that he was not of the sort to have sex indiscriminately. It was a matter of some pride to Lucius that he entered into cold beds, not ones warmed with the constant passing of other limbs.  
  
And from what Potter had said…  
  
Lucius smiled. _This_ particular fact was so delicious that he had to approach it slowly, circling around it, sniffing carefully for every trace of the scent before he opened his jaws.  
  
From what Potter had said, and if his perceptions and protests were to be trusted, he had had no other lover in the past seven years.  
  
That was a well-defended honor. That was a fortress that Lucius would take some pride in conquering.  
  
That was prey running with the hottest blood, the sweetest flesh.  
  
But Lucius would make no hasty move. Why should he, when a slow and careful one stood a chance of winning Potter and a hasty one of prejudicing Potter against him forever? He could wait, so he would.  
  
There was no one else partial to this private chase, and Lucius did not intend that there should be. He doubted Potter spent much time thinking about him. If he did, he probably shrugged and sneered and assumed that Lucius was one more mindless collector who would slather his palm with his own spunk because of the likeness of the Chosen One on his wall.  
  
Lucius did not yet know how to change Potter’s mind about him. When he did, then he would move. He would surge to the center of Potter’s life from the periphery in a single controlled burst of speed, chasing and claiming.  
‘  
The first claiming, at least. With someone like Potter, Lucius thought there were many others to come.  
  
*  
  
“It will do.”  
  
Harry managed to hide a smile, but it was hard. He’d labored for weeks to find a suitable place for a studio, and Risa walked in, looked at it, and said those bland and cool words. There was an undertone of excitement in her voice, and he’d known her for a long time, or he might have been hurt.  
  
The building had once belonged to a wizard who intended to make something—Harry didn’t know what, exactly—out of it. Maybe a hotel, maybe flats. It was certainly spacious enough, and not far from the outskirts of Muggle London, making it attractive to Muggleborns who spent a lot of their time between two worlds.  
  
The ceilings were high enough that Harry wondered absently if the former owner had planned an indoor Quidditch pitch, and all the walls had been knocked out of the room on the ground floor, so that it was simply bare space. Stairs still led up to the first and second floors, but from what Harry had seen, the rooms up there were hardly smaller. Large windows poured in light and air. There was broken glass in three of them right now, but that could be fixed in the flick of a wand. Harry wondered, from the way Risa was eying them, if she might even want _more_ windows. He had only rarely watched her in the process of creating her art, and he didn’t know what else she might require for her students.  
  
“I want to see the other floors,” Risa said suddenly, and moved away from him.  
  
Harry relaxed with a tiny sigh. He could have sold the building if she didn’t like it, but the decisive tone in her voice said she did. If she hadn’t, he would have had to begin the search all over again, and that would have been discouraging.  
  
He followed her upstairs when he heard her exclaim sharply. He found her standing in one of the two large rooms that opened from the stairwell on the first floor, hands spread as if her arms would grow much longer without help and let her touch the walls.  
  
“This is _perfect_ ,” she said. “I could not have found a better studio had I searched for years.” She turned around and stared at him. “Did you study me? Did you read my mind, to find a place like this for me?”  
  
Harry laughed aloud this time. “If you knew how bad I was at Legilimency, you would understand how funny that is,” he said, when Risa continued to stare at him fixedly. “No. I hoped that it would suit you, but I didn’t really _know_. If I’ve managed to suit you, even if it was by chance, then I’m glad.”  
  
“You have something about you that is more than chance,” Risa said softly, cocking her head to the side and eyeing him as if she thought that he would suddenly sprout wings. Or as if she wanted to paint a portrait of him, Harry realized slowly. He had seen her look at other subjects that way. “Something about that you bears you through the graces and pains of fortune, and leads you where you need to go.”  
  
Harry tried to conceal his laughter this time, not because he was afraid that it would offend her, but because it was bitter. Risa blinked and stared at him harder, as if she could hear every nuance of the sound anyway and didn’t like it. But Harry didn’t intend to explain. He wasn’t about to inflict his bitterness on her. What did she have to do with it? She hadn’t caused his pain.   
  
“Where I need to be,” he said, when he thought he wasn’t about to burst out in undignified cackling, “is apparently here, for right now. But perhaps you should see the second floor before you decide the place is perfect.”  
  
Risa eyed him one more time, and then turned and stalked up the stairs as if daring the building to taunt her with something less than wonderful. Harry followed, balancing his hands on the banisters. He hoped she wouldn’t turn around and look at him before she saw the rooms. He was still having some trouble controlling the blinking of his eyes in the way that he should.  
  
 _Damn it_. He shouldn’t still be sensitive about this years after the war. He had a lot compared to many people. He didn’t have to work. There were some people who would have said that was a blessing all its own. And he had wonderful, supportive friends, and a cause that needed him and that he could support unhesitatingly. There were people who would have _killed_ for something like that.  
  
But it seemed that one particular sore point lingered within him still, one wound that someone could still tear open unexpectedly if they pressed on it without knowing it was there.  
  
 _Ginny died because of people who thought I was too lucky._  
  
If he _did_ have any kind of luck, it was in having so much experience dealing with grief that he could do it easily by now. They came out onto the second floor, and Risa froze, staring. Harry stepped up behind her and folded his arms, leaning a hip on the banister, enjoying her reaction.  
  
The second floor was cut up into many smaller rooms, with corridors that ran all the way around, linking them. But the walls hung, slightly swaying, on great hooks, suspended a few feet from the floor. Risa would see the advantage of walls that could be moved in order to provide room for large or small projects, as needed, and to make into backgrounds for different kinds of art.  
  
“It is beautiful,” she said, and prowled around the floor, staring at various walls. Most of them were plain wood or stone. Harry knew that wouldn’t stop her imagination from painting them with incredibly vivid scenes. He followed her when it seemed that she wasn’t going to stop or slow down, wanting to be there for the final moment of revelation.  
  
Risa stopped. Then she turned to face him, hands extending again as if she didn’t know whether she wanted to embrace or strangle him.  
  
“You didn’t have to do this,” she whispered.  
  
Harry smiled at her. “I didn’t know exactly what you’d like,” he said, as he had said it about the building. “So I bought a bit of everything.”  
  
Risa’s “this” and his “everything” was a pile of canvas, paints, brushes, wood, bits of stone, palettes, stools, ladders, ointments, flowers, minerals, metals, and all sorts of other art supplies in the last, and currently biggest, room. Risa reached out and caressed a flapping sheet of canvas stirred by a wind from the open window nearby.  
  
“Will it do?” Harry asked, when he thought enough moments had passed for her to speak.  
  
Evidently he was wrong. Risa simply turned a full face to him, nodded once, and then went back to staring into the future.  
  
Harry smiled again, though he didn’t have an audience this time. He was content.  
  
*  
  
Really, Potter didn’t seem to see the necessity of security _anywhere_. It was ridiculously easy for Lucius to slip into the building that he had chosen as the studio for his little artist friend and explore.  
  
He stood studying Potter’s expression for long moments when he caught up with the pair, and particularly the way that his smile never seemed to falter, even when he looked at the bleak, blank surfaces that currently occupied most rooms of the building. Apparently he, like many artists, was capable of seeing the unpictured future in glorious colors.  
  
Lucius made a soft, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, and Potter craned his neck around to stare. But Lucius was wearing his powerful Disillusionment Charm again, and Potter’s gaze sliced and slid past him.  
  
He had wanted a way to introduce himself into Potter’s life, a way guaranteed to work. He had had one great failure in his lifetime. That was enough.  
  
He knew he would not fail now.  
  
A sound from the lower floors attracted him. He held still, letting his senses work out the threat, if threat it was. He saw from the corner of his eye Potter’s head turn and a frown creep across his face, but, beautiful as even a small change could make those features, Lucius would not let it distract him.  
  
Potter cursed in the next moment, and so volubly that Lucius began to hope that he sometimes disciplined his tongue. It was hard to think of Potter containing such ignobility as poor control over his temper.  
  
“What’s the matter?” demanded the Mudblood with Potter, turning around and staring down at the stairs as if she thought the building would collapse beneath her. _You would not die if it did_ , Lucius thought at her, _for Potter would surely save you, and I should save myself._  
  
“Trouble,” Potter said, and then began to spring down the stairs. Lucius could see the flexing of the muscles in his legs by turning his head slightly sideways. He uttered a pleased sigh, as there was no one who could hear it. He had wondered at first whether Potter might not lose something by not wearing the traditional robes, but he did not.  
  
Not at all.  
  
“Reporters?” Turner sounded unsurprised that it should be so. Indeed, she was patting her hair as she went down the steps. Lucius curled his lip. _She must imagine that they are come about her and her art, to commission works that she cannot make._  
  
“No,” Potter said, and his voice was so thick with dread that Lucius stirred himself to follow. “Worse.”  
  
By the time that Lucius arrived on the ground floor—large and drafty as it was, it could have used several pieces of art to warm it and break up the immense space—the intruder was inside. He leaned on the wall, his hand resting on his right hip, trying to look nonchalant and feline. He succeeded mostly in looking duck-like, his arm echoing the curve of that water-bird’s wing.  
  
Lucius’s face quivered and he felt a harpchord of sadness that he could not share the comparison with Potter. From the look on his face, it would have amused him. Lucius watched the way Potter stood, his arms folded, his fingertips resting on the ends of his elbows, his body quivering with leashed tension, and wondered what he would do if Lucius stepped up beside him and drew his own fingers in a slow line down his spine.   
  
Start, of course, and fling himself backwards, drawing his wand as he went. Lucius could see the motions in his mind.   
  
But with an acknowledged, accepted ally? Support? Lover?  
  
Lucius could not wait to find out.  
  
“I’m sorry,” the man said, in a voice so plummy with insincerity that Lucius knew he was not trying to fool Potter. He probably thought his presence flattering and used the apology the way Lucius would a formal bow to a hostess whose party he had arrived at late. “But I couldn’t be deprived of your presence any longer, Harry.” He dipped his head and looked up from under his eyelashes, a maneuver that Lucius had found suited very few of those who were inclined to try it.  
  
Potter clenched his right elbow hard at the first name. So this man did not have his permission to speak it, Lucius thought. He was a fool to try. Society gossip might discuss Potter as open and generous, but Lucius’s one pair of eyes could see further than a thousand clouded ones. Potter glittered on the surface, but he was shut tight underneath, like one of Narcissa’s gold-lidded jewelry boxes.  
  
“I’ve told you not to come here, Willowwand,” he said, voice low and controlled. “Or any place I happen to be standing.”  
  
Lucius turned his head lazily to consider the object of Potter’s ire, who was now pouting.  
  
He wore scarlet Auror robes. He had black lace edgings on the cuffs that Lucius was sure were not standard regulation. His hair was blond, with an ice-colored trail down the middle of his skull that Lucius knew had been artificially added. His eyes were common brown, nothing at all like the glorious shade that Lucius had imagined for Potter before he saw the green.   
  
And they were fixed on Potter as though Potter was about to bend over for him.  
  
Lucius would perhaps have been angry if Potter had shown any sign of regarding this puppy with interest. As it was, he sighed, pitying those who did not understand the enormous gap between the mud and the stars.  
  
Potter again turned and looked behind him when he heard the sound. Willowwand, the trained Auror, did not notice, because he was too busy filling his ears with his own rattle.  
  
“I can’t stay away. You know I like you, Harry. You know I want to date you. Why won’t you give me a chance?” He turned his head to the side in what was probably meant as a charming gesture, and which Lucius recognized at once as the motion of someone who had been told his profile was his best side.  
  
Lucius wished he could meet the person who had said that to Willowwand. He wished to congratulate such a successful liar, someone whose triumph in making the boy embarrass himself was still going on to this day.  
  
“Because you’re an idiot and won’t leave me alone when I told you to?” Potter sneered as he replied. The sneer did not disfigure his face. Lucius was beginning to wonder if anything could. A scar, perhaps, but the one on his forehead had done nothing in that respect.   
  
_You are a source of light_ , he thought at Potter. _Do not disdain the boy for recognizing it in you and wishing to draw closer, though to do so would burn his wings. It is the only commendable thing about him._  
  
“But if I left you alone, that would hardly be conducive to getting you to date me.” Willowwand smiled. Lucius felt like applauding at this evidence that he knew words of more than two syllables. “I’m the best Auror in the Department right now, and there are some people who say that I’m a hero like you. You wouldn’t have to run after me or protect me. I could protect _you_. What makes you not like me?”  
  
Lucius felt a tingle in his mouth as he watched Potter stare coldly into Willowwand’s eyes. _That is not the way to appeal to him. I do not think that Potter would want to admit himself in need of protection, even if he was. And he is not._  
  
Lucius wondered again what would happen if he revealed himself, if Willowwand would think that Potter needed protection _then.  
  
But I intend only to offer him pleasure and honor, esteem and intelligent conversation. He is wise enough to understand the difference, and this boy’s opinion does not matter._  
  
Perhaps he would have moved then if he were younger and less capable of recognizing a useless risk. As it was, he was content to stand still and observe as Potter spoke in a low, cutting tone, the kind that would tear anyone’s confidence to shreds.  
  
“Do you know how much that doesn’t matter to me? I dislike my own heroic reputation, and you want me to deal with yours? You think I’m some trembling, fragile thing who requires a pair of arms to cure my fear?” He leaned closer to Willowwand, but Lucius could not disapprove of that, not when he was breathing a winter wind across the fool’s hopes.   
  
“I’ve done things you can’t imagine, and been places that you’ll never see,” Potter said, each word hurled like a hex. “That separates us in ways that you can’t imagine, either.”  
  
Lucius could have purred. _Very well done, though the repetition of “imagination” unfortunately shows a contraction of the vocabulary. I can offer him books that will do him a great deal of good, however._  
  
“But you still need a warm body to keep you company at night,” Willowwand said, his voice cajoling. “Don’t you, Harry?”  
  
Potter stared at him, then laughed like a wolf. “And you’re willing to rate yourself that low?” he asked, when he recovered.  
  
Willowwand’s earnest look didn’t waver. “I know I have to start somewhere,” he said. “Please, Harry. I want you any way I can have you.”  
  
Potter gave him a narrow-eyed glare that was the closest to interest in the boy Lucius had seen from him. Perhaps he admired honesty. Perhaps he did like being pursued, after all—Lucius rather thought he would—and this was determined enough to make him pay attention.  
  
 _But you have a better prospect in view_ , Lucius told him. Then he paused and reconsidered. _Perhaps not in view, but close._  
  
“And that says a lot about your motives,” Potter said. His voice was less cold than before, but more intense, and for the first time Willowwand flinched and stepped back. Lucius thought he’d probably heard this tone before. “It’s all talk of having and possession and working for me as if I was some sort of treasure.” Potter sighed, but this time Lucius thought the sound was directed at himself as much as at his audience. “Go away and find someone who’s worthy of what you’re doing and won’t make you turn yourself into some sort of whore.”  
  
Lucius knew many people whose lust would have turned to hatred at those words. But Willowwand simply sighed himself, looked at Potter as if he was a feast Willowwand was being sent away starving from, and then bowed and retreated through the door.  
  
Potter spun back to Turner as though nothing had happened. “I’m sorry, Risa,” he said. “A minor interruption.”  
  
“Cale Willowwand,” Risa said, with her eyes thoughtfully distant. “I’ve wanted to paint him, but I’d never seen him close enough.”  
  
Potter smiled, for some reason, as if he found the artist’s attitude refreshing. Lucius took the beginning of their conversation as an opportunity to slip out the door.  
  
 _Thank you, Willowwand_ , he thought, and wished there was a way to let the puppy know of his gratitude, the first and last time he would ever have something so precious. _I know now that speaking of making Potter mine will earn me no favors, and nor will any seeming of being desperately in love with him.  
  
But that does not matter, not with that cleverness and spirit of independence he bears beneath his beauty. I will appeal to both of them.  
  
As for being worthy of what I am doing_ … Lucius laughed quietly to himself. _I would never have demeaned myself by wanting someone who was not.  
  
In time, Potter will understand and appreciate that. He might never agree.  
  
But what would any alliance be between us if we agreed perfectly? The tiger and the lion are both full of strength and grace, and the world would be poorer if one of them did not exist._


	3. Cheetah

  
_One burst of swiftness._  
  
Harry sighed and rolled his eyes at the mirror. He’d had a long nap this afternoon, because he needed it after being up half the night reassuring Gaheris Brandywine that his paintings weren’t shite, but his hair was always unmanageable after hours of being smashed flat against a pillow.  
  
 _And who are you trying to impress_? he asked himself wryly as he began to cast the several dozen straightening charms that were necessary to make his hair behave when it was like this. _Ginny’s ghost?_  
  
The truth was, he wouldn’t have bothered about his appearance at all if not for the formal atmosphere of most of the gatherings he attended. His artist friends would be embarrassed if he showed up looking half-dead, and the _Daily Prophet_ sometimes carried vaguely realistic stories that stood a chance of getting more publicity for people Harry wanted to promote. For that, he had to look good.  
  
 _Always for others and not myself_ , he thought, but without resentment. He had long since accepted that he was that way in most areas of his life. Trying to change would have been more trouble than it was worth.  
  
Finished, he looked in the mirror one last time and cast a charm that changed the color of his robes. Then he started for the door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in resignation.  
  
He wasn’t looking forwards to the gathering tonight. The centerpiece of it would no doubt be a beautiful statue, since all of Luke Thornsley’s work was beautiful, but it would remind Harry of a broken friendship. He had found someone to laugh and joke around with in Thornsley—until he had refused to model for him.  
  
Harry didn’t model for anyone, for the same reasons he’d given Rossetti. He hadn’t thought Thornsley would take it personally. But he had, and the next piece of art he’d made was a deliberate mockery of the people who had died in the war. Harry hadn’t spoken to him since.  
  
 _But you’re going for the sake of other people_ , Harry reminded himself as he locked the door tightly behind him. _Concentrate on those people and not on Thornsley, and you might have a pleasant evening._  
  
He stepped off the doorstep, then stopped with a glare when he saw what lay on the walkway. A bunch of flowers, rue and clematis tied together with a ribbon that had a card dangling from it. The card had gilt lettering. That couldn’t make up for the horrible smell of the rue, and Harry grimaced as he Vanished the whole thing.  
  
Cale Willowwand knew he couldn’t get through the wards surrounding Number Twelve, but that didn’t stop him from regularly leaving love tokens just outside them.  
  
Harry whirled away from the place and took a few more steps, striving to calm his anger. It wasn’t a good idea to Apparate while angry.  
  
 _What the fuck does he want? Sometimes I think this goes too far for an ordinary case of hero worship, but I’ve dropped all these hints about things he could do to get on my good side, and he refuses to take them. It’s as if he wants to win me his way or not at all_.  
  
As Harry spun in place and disappeared, he found himself wondering if Lucius Malfoy would be at Thornsley’s exhibition.  
  
*  
  
Lucius smiled at himself in the mirror and cocked his head. The mirror was enchanted so that it couldn’t offer compliments—Lucius found them inane compared with the words he was accustomed to let grace his ears—but it would shine if it found him especially appealing. Silver sparks emerged and ran around the edges of the mirror now.  
  
Lucius had chosen golden robes, not his usual color, but one that he knew warmed his skin and made him appear less like the marble statue his past lovers had liked to compare him to. Potter would need some warmth to entice him.  
  
His hair was pulled back into a single braid that divided near his shoulders into three, each tied with a black ribbon. Lucius liked the touch of whimsy, and thought Potter would like it, too. His cheeks had more color than usual. Meeting his own eyes in the glass, Lucius could not tell if that was the effect of the robes or of his own excitement.  
  
He had decided on the best way to court Potter, and that meant he could _move.  
  
The only negative part of the evening_ , Lucius thought as he strode down the stairs, the robes unfurling behind him like wings, _is that I must be subjected to the welt on the skin of creation that is Luke Thornsley’s idea of good art._  
  
*  
  
“Remarkable, isn’t it?”  
  
Thornsley wasn’t tall, but you forgot that when you were near him, Harry thought, not for the first time. He had dark hair and eyes, and a sharp, jutting nose, and a crackling vitality that he seemed to infuse into his statues directly through his hands.  
  
“Indeed,” Harry said, and glanced again at the statue that took up the center of Marley Hall. The roof of the place was high, like most pure-blood buildings', but the walls themselves were wooden, with alcoves containing purchased and protected works, making it seem far more intimate than the last few shows Harry had attended. The platform in the middle where Thornsley’s statue crouched was still meant to display its occupant in grandeur, of course.  
  
The statue showed a figure falling and dying, dissolving into a mass of snakes. A phoenix swooped down on it from above, beak open and flames raging around it, in particular rising around its head like a crown. Thornsley had made it entirely of wood, but carved so skillfully that the dying figure was much darker, while the flames around the phoenix contained warm shades of brown that almost became red and gold.  
  
Harry knew it was meant to be a representation of Voldemort’s defeat, and the phoenix the collective Order of the Phoenix. This was Thornsley’s latest way of trying to hurt him, by insisting that it wasn’t really Harry who had killed Britain’s nemesis.  
  
 _He makes the common mistake_ , Harry thought idly as he shifted his gaze back to Thornsley, _of assuming that I define myself by that one moment._  
  
“Very pretty,” he said, and started to move away.  
  
Thornsley actually started and hissed as if someone had jabbed him with a hot needle, and hurried after Harry. Then he had the gall to put one hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry paused and stared at it. Thornsley retreated immediately, wringing his hand. Harry smiled. There were times he enjoyed his reputation as a wizard powerful enough to fry someone’s limbs off with a glance.  
  
“You have to think more of it than that,” Thornsley insisted in a low voice. “Do you know how much _effort_ I put into that thing?”  
  
Harry cocked his head, his amusement turning into quiet enjoyment. “I don’t think,” he said, “that you should expend effort on your art for the sake of someone else’s admiration. You cannot _command_ that admiration. You should do the work primarily to embody your vision.”  
  
“Very well put, Mr. Potter,” said a voice from beyond him. “And yet, I cannot agree.”  
  
Harry turned to meet Lucius Malfoy’s eyes, doing his best to make the movement smooth as tearing silk. _I will not allow him to surprise or hurt me._  
  
Besides, if the bastard thought he could shame Harry by showing off his superior knowledge about art, he was in for a surprise.  
  
“Would you care to explain what you mean by that?” he asked, with a motion of his hand that signaled a waiter to approach from beyond Malfoy.  
  
*  
  
 _Oh, very good_. Lucius had not been sure, when he contemplated a swift dash on Potter, what would happen. It was the best plan he could think of, and yet Potter might turn and walk away. Lucius must risk it anyway.   
  
He could not remember such uncertainty in dealing with another person in years. It was like drinking mulled wine.  
  
Instead, Potter had hurled himself straight into Lucius’s jaws.  
  
“One may command admiration, if one tries hard enough,” said Lucius. He had known that the way to seduce Potter was through the intellect, long before the body—Potter’s own words and his flinches when someone touched him made it clear enough that _that_ would not be a feasible route—and he could not have asked for a better opportunity. “One may create a piece of art that molds and shapes the mind of another. Would you say—”  
  
Then he sensed someone behind him, and tensed and stepped to the side instinctively. The waiter swept around him and offered a platter of drinks to Potter with a deep bow.  
  
Potter’s eyes glinted. Lucius realized the lazy gesture of his hand, which he had taken before for some sort of warding motion to force him away, had been designed to construct exactly this sort of situation, with Lucius’s own temporary awkwardness.  
  
 _My prey does not mean to yield himself_ , Lucius thought, even as he bowed and forced all his irritation out in a soundless breath. A moment later, the irritation was genuinely gone, replaced by coiling excitement that played across his muscles like delicate fire. He straightened and smiled at Potter, who frowned uncertainly back. _That makes him the more delicious._  
  
“Your pardon,” he murmured to the waiter, reaching deftly across to take a glass of champagne from the tray. “I did not see you standing there.”  
  
Potter’s frown grew more pronounced, but even when the waiter became round-eyed and almost ran away, he couldn’t blame Lucius. He gave his head a tiny shake and apparently sought to draw the conversation back to the right track. “You were saying?” he asked, politeness in his voice like frost.  
  
 _That I think you beautiful_ , Lucius longed to reply, but the time had not come for that, and might not for months or years. “Would you say it is _impossible_ to touch minds through artwork?” he asked. “I must admit, such a comment would indicate a broader knowledge of the subject than I can pride myself on possessing.”  
  
“Not to touch them,” Potter said, voice low as though he could hardly believe he was agreeing with Lucius. “But you were arguing for something different than a mere _touch_.” He hadn’t moved, but the slightest changing of lines in his face was enough to give Lucius the impression of a guard defending a fortress against enemy intrusion.  
  
Lucius felt his stomach tightening as though he hadn’t eaten in hours. He did not reply until he was certain his voice would be balanced, cool, effective. “To command admiration? Yes, I suppose I was.” Again Potter’s brow furrowed as he admitted his fault. Lucius wondered how many other times he could surprise Potter in the course of the conversation. “But I believe it. One can put such beauty on canvas, in stone, in wood, that the reader’s mind is compelled to offer allegiance despite itself.”  
  
“I reckon you would know all about compelling allegiance.” Potter seemed to mean his words to travel no further than the two of them.  
  
Lucius smiled. “A poor being I would be if I could not face my own mistakes,” he said. “Yes, I have used the Imperius Curse. Yes, I saw and committed torture under the Dark Lord. But you are mistaken if you think I confuse those things with art, Potter. Torture is not beautiful, and I admire only things that are—the beauty that steals one’s breath, the rapture that falls like lightning from the skies. Did you know that the word 'rapture' comes from a Latin root that literally means ‘stolen away’ or ‘seized’? I admire the art that makes me feel like that.” He paused, then added, “It is also the root of ‘ravish,’ or so I remember reading.”  
  
Potter’s eyes widened again. The sight of the emotions swimming in them was, in and of itself, enough to pay Lucius for his trouble in starting the conversation.   
  
*  
  
 _What is he doing?_  
  
Harry was aware of surprise slashing like a whip against his skin. He had the urge to fall back from Malfoy until he was on the other side of the room, and even that might not be enough.  
  
He briefly contemplated at least putting Thornsley’s sculpture between them, because, if Malfoy valued beauty, he would stand there forever carping at and criticizing it for not being beautiful enough.  
  
The ridiculous thought steadied him. Harry gave his head a small shake and stood up straighter, locking his eyes on Malfoy’s face. Malfoy tilted his head in response, his gaze darkening. Harry didn’t know why Malfoy's face wore a shadow of disappointment now, but he thought it was a good thing. What had the world come to when Malfoy looked at him the way he’d been looking a moment ago, and spoke in a low voice?  
  
 _But you’ve been looked at it that way before, and spoken to in softer voices, with prettier words, and gentler smiles._  
  
Yes, he was steady now. It was only the utter _unexpectedness_ of the occurrence that had caught him off-balance, Harry thought defensively. Of all the people he had thought might try to seduce him, Lucius Malfoy was not one of them.   
  
“Linguistic knowledge is interesting, too, of course,” Harry said in the most polite and neutral voice he had, as neutral as the tones of grey in some of Risa’s paintings. “But I find it incompatible with most discussions about art. So few of the artists that I value use words in their designs, you know.”  
  
“Is that so?” Malfoy’s response was immediate, his expression full of nothing but intense interest no matter how hard Harry stared at him. “You must not have seen Leomund Kaczynski's Wall of Words, then. _There_ is an artifact to command admiration. The woven words among the chiseled ones, the wooden plaques among the bronze ones…I think that even you would have to admit that linguistics has a place there.”  
  
“Does he include dictionary definitions, too?” Harry asked, and wished he had taken a drink from the waiter who had come by after all. It would have given him something to do with his hands. He was prone to make nervous gestures with them, and he hated that. “If so, I can see why you would find it fascinating.”  
  
Malfoy laughed softly, with his mouth open and his eyes shining so deeply that Harry could feel the pull of his charm. _Wasted on me, but I suspect that he would not like to hear that_. “I think you will find that I do not offer dictionary definitions,” he said, or practically _whispered_. Harry realized abruptly just how close they stood together and how softly Malfoy was speaking. He stiffened his muscles against the temptation to take a large step backwards. That would make him look afraid, and he didn’t want that. “I offer definitions that have been lived, and turned over in the mind, and worked as carefully as any sculptor wields his instruments. Definitions to savor.”  
  
Harry glanced over his shoulder, and had the satisfaction of noticing that a painting he had watched the creation of, Giles Burne-Jones’s _Blue Sunrise_ , hung on a wall nearby. He had the excuse he needed for stepping away from Malfoy and up to the canvas. Streaks of blue exploded across it, so many different shades—cornflower, cobalt, cerulean, cyan, azure, and some that Harry suspected didn’t have names—that they tricked the eye, and one forgot about the missing sun in trying to number them. “I’m more akin to art like this,” he murmured, touching one of the larger streaks of deeper blue in the bottom right-hand corner of the painting. “ _This_ is what I savor. Wordless beauty that makes me think.” He gave Malfoy a glance from the corner of his eye. “What good is it thinking about where words came from when you’re confronted with this, or with the actual natural event it’s modeled after? Your knees weaken and tears come to your eyes, but there’s no rational reason for that. It can’t be put into words.”  
  
Malfoy raised an eyebrow and strolled after Harry. Harry tensed, but Malfoy took up the opposite corner of the painting to examine. Harry relaxed. He hadn’t been exactly subtle about the signals he had sent Malfoy to back off. He appeared to be someone who could recognize such things and who preferred not to embarrass himself by ignoring them.  
  
Harry had put an extra temptation to stay away in his last words. Malfoy would probably be thinking, as so many other unwanted suitors did when Harry admitted things like that, _I don’t want someone so weak that he gets teary from a sunrise._  
  
But Malfoy turned to him with a faint smile that had been old when crocodiles were embryos drifting in the mud, and said, “Not _easily_ put into words. But how many times have you read poems or heard songs about the sunrise and the sunset, Mr. Potter? Would you deny them the right to capture any beauty at all?”  
  
“I’m not nearly as familiar with songs and poetry as I am with the other branches of art,” Harry said, relieved. _Here’s another reason for him to think I’m vulgar_. “I told you, I prefer almost everything to words.”  
  
“Really?” Malfoy leaned nearer again, and though there was plenty of space between them, he somehow pitched his voice so that Harry could hear it better than he could the buzz of mindless conversation a short distance away.   
  
“‘This is a sunset in glass and air,’” Malfoy intoned, “‘full of unnamable and radiant shades. The sky as the world below is fair; the sky as the world below has its woods and glades, made of cloud and streaked with gold rarer than wine, dashed with orange that has a destiny as blue. Lift your eyes to observe a world more fine, often, than the thick buildings and people we cannot see through.’” He leaned back again and waited.  
  
Harry stayed silent in return until he was sure Malfoy would say no more, and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes narrow. Then he shrugged and said, “It takes more than a few references to colors and incidental rhymes to make me think something is art.”  
  
“I am sad to find you a person of such limited culture,” Malfoy said, straightening up and moving away from _Blue Sunrise_ as if he could no longer bear to be near a painting that Harry liked.  
  
Harry smiled. But his triumph was short-lived when Malfoy turned towards him again and said, “But I appreciate that not everyone has had the benefits of a full personal library. From what I understand, the library at Hogwarts is particularly poor in books that are not either nonfiction or the most limited and popular wizarding novels.”  
  
“You say ‘popular’ as if you believe that appeal and art are mutually exclusive,” Harry said mildly. He had no wish to talk over libraries or education with Lucius Malfoy. It could lead too easily to the subject of childhood, and Harry did not wish to have someone kill him or try to kill someone in the middle of an exhibition like this.  
  
“Not often,” Malfoy said, his eyelids drooping as if he _wanted_ to look like a lazy cat lounging on the hearth before a bright fire. “When the public takes kindly to a piece of art, it is an indication, often, of a grain of genius somewhere within it. But what they _think_ they are responding to is most often not that genius, but the superficial aspects of it that plague one artist after another. That is when I become wary, when someone surrenders to the popular taste and decides they would rather be popular than beautiful.”  
  
“Does beauty matter to you that much?” Harry asked. He was tired of the conversation and wanted to join one of the people he could see drifting around the edges of the exhibition, several of whom were his friends. The only way he could see to do that was to take control of the discussion and push it to a premature conclusion.  
  
“It matters to me as air matters,” was Malfoy’s response, brief but not short, while his eyes opened and widened like a cat seeing prey.  
  
“Then you can have little interest in me,” Harry said, intending the words to be double-edged, and turned away from Malfoy.  
  
He nearly ran into Giles Burne-Jones, who smiled at him and then looked at Malfoy as if trying to determine why he was in a room that didn’t echo with the screams of maimed prisoners. Giles was a tall, heavyset man with shaggy dark brown hair that he changed the style of every time Harry saw him. Right now, it clung around the sides of his face and barely swayed when he moved his head.  
  
“Harry,” Giles said, and took his hand with a casual assurance that Harry admired. So few of his other friends had the same kind of ease around him—except Ron and Hermione, who had known him so long, and Risa, for whom it was a case of not caring more than anything else—and too many people reached out with a cautious hand to touch him, in a manner that reminded him of Willowwand.   
  
Harry wasn’t delicate. He wasn’t porcelain, to crack or shatter. It was just that he didn’t _want_ to be touched by very many people, and they mistook his fastidiousness for fragility.  
  
“I heard you’d bought Risa a new studio,” Giles said. “No one deserves it more.”  
  
Harry grinned at him. “I’m glad you think so. What favor do you have to ask me?”  
  
“Me?” Giles touched his hand to his chest and widened his eyes. “What makes you think that _I_ have something to ask you?”  
  
“Because you never mention someone else’s good fortune without wanting to increase your own.” Harry took his hand back and folded his arms. “Well?”  
  
“In this case, it honestly isn’t for me,” said Giles, speaking in a serious tone. That was another thing Harry approved of: Giles didn’t hint and flirt and dance around corners, either. He knew what he wanted, and he spoke of it with admirable directness. “It’s for a friend of mine who’s had a spot of trouble recently. Supplies stolen, his best piece ruined in transport, that kind of thing. Perhaps you’d like to meet him?”  
  
Harry nodded. “I always want to meet someone before I promise help.” There had been a few—not many, but enough that he was wary—deceptions aimed at him in the years he’d been patronizing artists. Harry thought that he could judge someone better by looking in their eyes and listening to their story face-to-face.  
  
“Great,” Giles said, clapping him on the back. “His name is Ernie Macmillan, and—”  
  
“Really?” Harry interrupted, not trying to conceal his pleasure. “He was an old acquaintance at Hogwarts. I didn’t know he’d become an artist.”  
  
“He felt the call late,” Giles said solemnly. Harry rolled his eyes. If there was one thing that exasperated him about Giles, it was this tendency to treat art as a mysterious process, rather than a business. Harry knew there were sometimes inspirations and mysteries in art, but he was much more comfortable with the practical side of things. “But yeah, he’s taken up the chisel in concert with the wand now.”  
  
“The wand?” Harry cocked his head, intrigued. There were many magical forms of art, including wizarding portraits, but most of the artists he knew felt that such things were cheating. It was no effort to make something beautiful if you cast a spell.   
  
“Yes. He sculpts in ice.” Giles grinned at him. “You can see why he might need some help to keep his material from melting as he works on it.”  
  
Harry blinked. The first thing he thought of were the sculptures in ice that he had sometimes seen when he walked past a shop in the Muggle world that had tellies in them, but he suspected that Ernie’s art would be considerably more complicated and realistic. “Yes, I can see that,” he said. “Tell him I’d like to meet him in the next week.”  
  
Giles blew out a breath of relief that made his cheeks redden. “He’ll be grateful to hear that, Harry. I can’t tell you how worried he’s been that he’ll never get a chance to show the world what he can do.”  
  
Harry nodded to him as Giles swept off to interact with a patron, and then turned around. He expected to see Malfoy lurking behind him, ready to continue their conversation at a moment’s notice. So many people did that, fuming quietly all the while about not having exclusive claim to Harry’s time and attention.  
  
But Malfoy was on the other side of the room, speaking with a tall blonde woman in silver robes. Harry squinted. He knew her by sight, he thought. Probably Rowan Fedele, the experimental sculptor.   
  
Fedele laughed and shook her head, then walked off. Malfoy leaned on his cane, which Harry knew he didn’t need, and watched her in a frankly admiring way.  
  
Harry waited, but Malfoy still didn’t turn to face him. He took a glass of wine from a passing waiter instead and went to look at the portrait of a dragon on the opposite wall. Harry saw him spend two minutes in front of it, examining it minutely, before he drifted off along the wall of artworks. He appeared to be making the tour of the room.  
  
 _He’s ignoring me_ , Harry thought. _He’s trying to make me feel bad about not being the center of his attention_.  
  
Except that Malfoy didn’t walk with the tension that signaled someone trying to make Harry feel bad. He didn’t glance over his shoulder. He didn’t hurry. He lingered over works Harry would have dismissed with a glance and spent less time on others than Harry thought they deserved, but every piece of art he paused and studied had some merit.  
  
Harry discovered that he was holding his breath, awaiting the moment when Malfoy would turn around again, and shook his head in irritation. _This is ridiculous. He sought my attention. I shouldn’t give mine now._  
  
He forced himself to look for Giles, who was done speaking with his patron, and engage him in conversation again.  
  
It felt as though the skin on his back was constantly aware anyway, waiting for a look from Malfoy.  
  
*  
  
Lucius smiled at the picture of the beautiful woman in front of him, a blue-robed witch who stood with one hand on a crystal swan, gazing steadfastly at the real swan on the pool in front of her. Such was the artist’s skill that it seemed as if the carved bird was about to spread its wings and the living bird was artificial.  
  
 _Is Potter getting a bit impatient?_  
  
Lucius had established what he wished, a claim on Potter’s attention. He knew when to move swiftly and when to back away, as he had done when he saw Potter truly involved in the discussion with Burne-Jones. Pressing further than Potter wished would lose him ground, as would showing signs of possessiveness, touching him uninvited, and a number of other mistakes that Lucius had noted Willowwand or those people who stared at Potter in public making.  
  
Because he had not yet gained Potter himself did not make this run useless. Lucius always enjoyed a chance to stretch his legs in the hunting dash and see how his prey reacted.  
  
Besides, it was hard to think of a talk he’d enjoyed more lately. Potter was intense, and though he might try to hold back behind coolness and disdain, he could hardly help charging everything he did with that intensity. Lucius had stood in the presence of lightning and felt less certain it would strike.  
  
 _This is good for me. I needed someone after Narcissa died, but until now, I felt as if I had no chance of gaining anyone worthy of me._  
  
Lucius permitted himself one glance. Potter once again stood before Burne-Jones, but he had his head canted to one side as if he would look in Lucius’s direction.  
  
Lucius smiled. _I wonder if he knows he does that.  
  
He certainly does not know he is beautiful, if his reaction to my comment on his features is any indication_.  
  
Lucius’s eyes narrowed slightly. He could think of only one reason that someone would go ignorant of his beauty in a world where everyone—from Aurors like Willowwand to the mindless editors of the papers—tried to reflect it back to him. Others had made the mirrors so bitter to him that he saw only smudged glass.  
  
 _I will give you what you need, Potter. It will be my pride and pleasure to do so._  
  
A thought came to Lucius before he left the hall, a thought that had never come to him before and which stole his breath as it danced before his mind’s eye like some glorious wild animal.  
  
 _Perhaps Potter is not prey after all, to be eaten and then discarded._  
  
Perhaps he is a hunter who can run beside me.


	4. Wolf

_Endurance, stamina, the constant trot._  
  
“But all I want is to take you on one date!”  
  
Harry hunched his shoulders and walked faster. He had _known_ it was a mistake to try and see Ron in the Ministry, but Ron had pleaded so hard for a visit from someone who stood outside the insanity that Harry had agreed. And they’d had a great time, talking and laughing over sandwiches from one of the many small shops mixing Muggle and wizarding food that had sprung up after the war.  
  
But then he had stepped outside Ron’s office. And Cale Willowwand was waiting for him.  
  
“I promise you’ll love it,” Willowwand whispered, so close to Harry’s ear that his breath felt like a fly buzzing there. “If you don’t, then I’ll take you home right away and leave you. How can you resist an offer like that?” His voice was a whine that put Harry’s teeth on edge.  
  
Harry became aware of the amused glances they were attracting, and lengthened his stride. Ron’s office wasn’t that far into the Auror Department. Soon he would be to the lifts, and then he could escape from this clinging nuisance.  
  
Then Willowwand stepped in front of him and stuck out an arm that barred his progress to the lifts.  
  
Harry slammed to a halt and gave Willowwand a slow, careful look. Anyone who was close to him would have known what that meant and immediately backed up, babbling apologies. But Willowwand only _hoped_ to become close to him, and his face adopted a round, stupid look.  
  
“One evening,” Willowwand said. “Two hours. Two of us.”  
  
“Three of us,” Harry muttered, “to complete the sequence.”  
  
Willowwand blinked at him. “I didn’t know that you were into that,” he said, but with rising satisfaction, as if he thought he’d finally found the explanation for Harry’s lack of interest in him. “But sure, if you want, I can find someone who I’m sure would be interested in a threesome—”  
  
“You, me, and your ego,” Harry finished. He watched, hoping Willowwand’s face would turn red, but he only tipped his head back and laughed as if Harry had told the best joke ever. He always made a point of showing off his throat, as if he assumed it was irresistible and Harry would like to kiss it. Harry was dreaming of applying his teeth to it, but in a far different way.  
  
“I like a man who can tell jokes.” Willowwand laid his fingers on Harry’s elbow and stroked once before Harry jerked his arm back. Harry glanced around for their audience and found it was made up of eager Aurors who edged forwards, as if they assumed that Harry was about to do something spectacular and they should get to watch. “And does this man who can tell jokes like me?” Willowwand’s voice was lower now, his breath a reek, so close did he stand.  
  
 _I warned him_ , Harry thought. _I spoke the clearest language I could. I’m sure that no one who has a grain of sense in his head will think I was unfair._  
  
He flicked his wand, and Willowwand left the floor and flew upwards, flipping over several times on the way. When he slammed against the ceiling, he hung like the world’s largest fly in a spiderweb, flopping and twitching. Harry made a few more passes with his wand, all of which tightened the invisible bonds and ensured that anyone who tried to get Willowwand down would have to cut through reversed and inverted layers of spells. Ron had taught him that trick, admitting that he didn’t have the talent for it Harry did but that it was quite hard for most people to cut through.  
  
“Am I done?” Harry asked aloud, pausing and considering the spectacle Willowwand made. Another invisible bond tied his mouth shut, so he couldn’t add his opinion to the proceedings. “No, I don’t think I’m quite done,” Harry decided.  
  
He waved his wand again, canceling the gag, and then pulled Willowwand’s tongue out of his mouth and tied it to his chin. Then he conjured a small banner and hung it around the tongue. Because he was merciful, the banner was made of light cloth instead of the heavy cloth Harry _could_ have used.  
  
When he walked away, he heard a ripple of laughter follow him. Harry smiled tightly. He _had_ hoped that would be amusing.  
  
 _Property of Anyone Who Wants Him_ , the banner said.  
  
All the way down, Harry was listening tensely for some sign that the Head Auror had taken his prank the wrong way, but no alarms sounded. He finally relaxed when he reached the Atrium and made his way towards one of the fireplaces.  
  
“Mr. Potter.”  
  
A new kind of tension flooded Harry as he saw Lucius Malfoy step out from behind the restored statues. Malfoy bowed to him and then finished drawing on a long, silken grey glove, which he had evidently been doing when Harry walked by. Harry concealed laughter with an effort. _Is the Ministry so sullied with the steps of commoners that he doesn’t dare touch anything in it?_  
  
“I wanted to ask your opinion about this particular piece of art.” Malfoy flicked his head at the restored statues in a way that implied they were interesting in the same way that a sore on one’s arm was interesting. Harry bit his lip, wondering if he should feel more contempt for Malfoy that he _had_ such gestures or for himself that he had learned to read them in such a short time. “This is a piece made, if anything was, to command admiration. What do you think?”  
  
Harry turned and studied the statues, though he had no reason to do so; he knew the pieces by heart, he’d seen them so often. The wizard and witch stood in the middle of the other creatures, who danced around them in a ring of joined hands. There was a centaur, a house-elf, a goblin, a mermaid—who danced on her upright tail—and a ghost. Beyond the confines of the ring waited other creatures, including a unicorn and a dragon, who watched with benevolent eyes, much the same expression on the faces of the wizard and witch as they extended their hands as if in blessing above the dancing creatures’ heads. They were done in what Harry had reason to know wasn’t real gold, just iron enchanted to look like it.  
  
“I think it is a piece made to command admiration,” Harry said. He let no inflection through into his voice, and arched an eyebrow when he saw the intense look that Malfoy gave him in response.  
  
“I had hoped for more than that from you,” Malfoy murmured.  
  
“For more than agreement? I’m surprised.” Harry cocked his head and let polite shock appear. He wasn’t equally good at acting every emotion, but that was one he’d had a lot of cause to use when it came to discussions like this with people who thought they were smarter than he was. “Many people would say that it is the most priceless treasures in debate, because it cannot be won, only given.”  
  
“If it were true agreement,” Malfoy said, clasping his gloved hands before him in an oddly _demure_ gesture, “the result of taking my words into your mind and sifting them over and over again through the fall of truth and memory until they emerged as golden in your mouth as they were in mine, then I would agree, and rejoice. But you merely repeat what I say, and in such a manner that tells me this trick has allowed you to escape many an unpleasant confrontation.”  
  
“You shouldn’t use so many big words,” Harry muttered. He didn’t understand the atmosphere that Malfoy seemed to be trying to establish. It crackled and surged around him, but it wasn’t one of chilly superiority—used by those who saw Harry as a newcomer to the art world and someone to catch off-guard or embarrass if they could—or one of hero-worship—used by those who wanted _him_ to offer opinions they could agree with. Being around Malfoy was like being around a leopard that Harry _thought_ was caged but might possess its own magic to turn the bars to illusion. “After all, there’s no saying that I would understand them.”  
  
“And that is another trick to evade those who would pursue you,” Malfoy said. He took a step closer, but it was an odd step, flowing rather than striding, and he stopped the moment he noticed Harry staring at him. “You understood everything I just said. Those who think you have not are the fools, the ones who do not understand what a treasure they are giving up the chance to be given.”  
  
“I won’t _give_ myself to anyone,” Harry snapped, and wished he could feel less like taffeta was sliding past his skin when Malfoy spoke. It was unsettling and exciting and demanding and Harry didn’t like it. Malfoy was at the bottom of the list of people who had the right to demand something of him.  
  
“Did I say anything about yourself?” Malfoy turned his head to the side and examined him with curious, bright eyes. “Though I might have meant it, if only in the sense that all our words contain part of ourselves. I meant your agreement, of course. You did not truly agree with me, and I cannot imagine you agreeing with many of the people you try that trick with.”  
  
Harry paused. The words didn’t actually sound dangerous, put like that. And Malfoy was right, in a way that made Harry want to smile reluctant approval of his intelligence.  
  
 _Then why do I feel so endangered?_   
  
“I wasn’t honest,” he said. “Except that, yes, this piece was meant to command admiration, to make everyone think the Ministry is like the wizard and witch in the center of the ring.” He nodded to the statues, grateful, among other things, for the way it took his eyes away from Malfoy.  
  
“And how would you describe that wizard and witch?” Malfoy’s voice was gentle, soft, but probing, as though he was trying to flay Harry with a knife of silk.  
  
“Concerned,” Harry said. “Magnanimous.” He paused, then added a mental shrug to his own hesitation. _What exactly can my words tell him that’s new? It’s not like my attitude to the Ministry is a secret_. “Paternalistic. Possessed of too much time on their hands.”  
  
“Fascinating,” Malfoy said. “As you said, this is an opus meant to drag the minds of its beholders unwilling into respect.” Harry opened his mouth to say that it was Malfoy and not he who had used that phrasing in the first place, but Malfoy was continuing. “I have talked with many people who see the expressions they wear as purely kind, disinterested and able to offer a complete, complex solution to the problems of our kind and the magical creatures’ species alike.”  
  
Harry laughed before he could think better of it. He wondered if he should be more disturbed at the fact that Malfoy had amused him or at the way Malfoy stood still for longer than necessary, as if listening more intently to the laughter than it was worth.  
  
*  
  
 _Listen to him. How often has he laughed since his lover’s death_?   
  
Lucius did not know, but he found himself hungry for more of the sound. This was angry and upset, scornful, but not bitter. Potter had not surrendered his sense of nobility in his struggle against the Ministry; he had not sunk into cynicism. He might well cause Lucius to feel as if he stood unarmed in the midst of lightning, because he had retained the right to intensity.  
  
At that moment, Lucius could have said that he would challenge the Ministry, if Potter wished it. Potter saw to the heart of what was, what the statue meant, with piercing clarity. Someone who could see like that also saw the Ministry’s promises for the shams they were.  
  
“How unexpected to hear that sound from your throat,” Lucius said. Potter eyed him with prompt suspicion, which was rather encouraging than otherwise. It showed that he could recognize and listen for nuance, that he had not deafened himself to them entirely when he lost his girlfriend or flung himself into this unusual direction for a Gryffindor. “Did you not once believe that such kindness was possible?”  
  
“Once,” Potter said. “But once is not now.” He gave a thin smile that seemed to want to suggest self-deprecation, but Lucius saw it in a different light. It was another of those tactics designed to make someone talking to Potter back off and reconsider whether he wanted to pursue him. “And I must warn you, I’m quite boring on politics. My friends say that I only ever sound one note.”  
  
“One note might have dozens of sounds hidden within it, as you would know if you knew more about music,” Lucius responded. For that he won a reluctant smile in spite of Potter’s tight control, and he paused to savor it before he continued. “Politics may contain art, or encircle it, and you must know that art often does the same thing for politics.”  
  
“Yes, but it isn’t my favorite kind of art.” Potter jerked his head at the fountain. “I hate those statues, for example.”  
  
 _Moving back to safer territory, Mr. Potter? But I think not_. “If the Ministry had commissioned statues that more accurately reflected the fractured state of our world as we find it,” Lucius asked softly, “would you hate them less?”  
  
Potter stood still, eyeing him. Lucius waited. Potter was sensitive enough to realize that he didn’t know exactly who “them” referred to. Lucius thought he was simply deciding now whether the bait was poisoned or not.  
  
“I don’t know,” Potter said at last, with a heaviness in his voice that Lucius hoped came from ponderous thought and not distrust. “I don’t—no, I think I probably wouldn’t, because commissioning the statue implies clear vision, but clear vision can be lost at any time. And I think I might hate the fountain more if it was a representation of hypocrisy instead of pure ruthlessness.”  
  
“You like things that are pure?” Lucius asked softly, taking a step nearer. “Things that are unadulterated?”  
  
Potter gave a smile so quick it appeared to hurt him, drew himself up, and answered back with pride sparking and dancing below the surface. “That would be hypocritical of _me_ , wouldn’t it? After all, I’m not pure myself.”  
  
Lucius admired the way that Potter was trying to disarm him before he could begin to use the weapons of blood politics. No way to show Potter that he would rather leave those weapons where they lay, other than to not to use them at all.  
  
“There are many ways of judging purity,” Lucius said. “I have heard about those who accused you because you were a murderer, or they considered it so. I have not heard that any of them ever proposed another solution to the war with the Dark Lord.”  
  
Potter glanced at him swiftly from the corner of an eye. “Let’s not talk about me, instead of art,” he said in an arctic voice.  
  
Lucius merely raised one eyebrow that he knew was sculptured more carefully than any of the Ministry’s statues. “You began it.”  
  
Potter looked as if he came close to biting his lip in vexation, but only shook his head and said, “Yes, I did. Please accept my apology. I think this conversation has wandered into uninteresting territory.”  
  
Lucius bowed. “Then I have been a thoughtless guide. Pray, let me give you a map.” He continued while Potter seemed indecisive whether to object to the metaphor or the control of the conversation the metaphor implied. “The Ministry has chosen to represent itself as a set of parents overseeing the magical creatures of the world. Of course, a fundamental flaw in such symbolism is that it unequivocally chooses too small a number of images. Where, do you think, are the other wizards in this equation, the ones who are not magical creatures but not part of the Ministry, either?”  
  
Potter’s nostrils flared, and the temptation to pride or to talk about himself made him answer, his voice deep with passion. “I don’t think they’re anywhere in that vision. But when I can, I’ve tried to move them out of the ring, to show them that life beyond the Ministry isn’t a wasteland.”  
  
“And not all unicorns, either,” Lucius said, nodding to that section of the statue. In truth, he did not object to the unicorn as much as he did to other parts of the decoration. Someone had sculpted that who had actually _seen_ the beast. “Or dragons. You will teach them to walk the path between absolute purity and absolute destruction?”  
  
Potter had had a chance to recover himself, though Lucius caught a fugitive curl of his lips at Lucius’s phrasing. “I don’t think I’m the only one teaching them that,” he said, pleasantly but firmly. “And I think there are other lessons to learn.”  
  
“How much have you taught them to do without?” Lucius asked.  
  
“Plenty,” Potter said without hesitation, his hands relaxing. Perhaps this reminded him of discussions he had had before. Lucius hoped not, but, at the same time, a calm Potter was one less likely to run away, and Lucius would have him for a short time longer. “Without patronage from the Ministry, or easy money, or guaranteed sales of their work. Without belief in some sort of central authority for their world that can set everything right.” He rolled his eyes. “Of course, then I have to teach them not to make me into a substitute for that kind of authority. Without certainty, and sometimes without beauty or shelter, for a time.”  
  
“Without love?” Lucius asked, making his voice the merest whisper.  
  
“Of course not,” Potter said. “The artists who choose the path I can offer them have the passion for their work. They would probably never venture outside the Ministry’s clutches if they didn’t.”  
  
Lucius smiled. He judged that the misunderstanding this time was genuine, rather than Potter trying to avoid the implications of the question he’d asked. He paused until he could be sure that Potter was looking at him and wouldn’t turn away in an instant’s time, then said, in an even gentler whisper than before, “That is not the kind of love I meant.”  
  
“Of course I don’t cut them off from their families!” Potter stepped forwards, his neck arched and his face flushing as if he were prepared to fight for his honor, or perhaps the honor of the people he guided and protected. Lucius had wondered if he would find Potter’s face attractive when it turned red, but he need not have worried; the brilliant green of Potter’s eyes made them sparkle so brightly that he could easily ignore the background color if he wanted. Potter controlled himself with a small shake of his head and a growl that Lucius wished he could feel against his own skin. “Anyone who disagrees with their families over politics or because they see them as abandoning a promising career would have done that anyway, without my interference,” Potter finished. “I don’t try to persuade people who seem reluctant.”  
  
“Interesting,” Lucius said. “But I have heard it said that you’ve caused the ending of at least one engagement. One of your protégés had a fiancé who refused to stay with her when she left what he believed to be a secure, if boring, position executing portraits for the Ministry officials who could afford them.”  
  
“That old accusation. Yes.” Potter touched his chin in a weary gesture that Lucius would like him to avoid in the future. “Actually, you’ve got the story wrong,” Potter continued, and shook his head as though lead weights were attached to the back of his neck. “He accused her of sleeping with me. And of course the papers picked that up, and people started asking how she was supposed to resist a rich patron who could withdraw his funding for her projects at any time he liked, and they hardly listened to me or to her when we both said that nothing of the sort had happened.”  
  
“It was caused by the fiancé’s own stupidity, then,” Lucius said. He saw no hidden shadow of slyness or hypocrisy in Potter’s open declaration. Indeed, even if he had, Lucius would have thought that his hearing of Potter’s words to his friends, in what he had believed was a private setting, outweighed the gossip. “Not your fault.”  
  
Potter peered at him curiously from beneath a fringe like a thicket, then shrugged and said, “It’s been pleasant talking to you, Malfoy. Much more pleasant than I would have suspected.” He muttered the last words to himself in such a manner that Lucius knew he had not been meant to hear them. “But I do have certain matters awaiting my attention at home.” He gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel.  
  
Lucius studied his departing back for a moment, wondering if he should allow Potter to control the conversation like that, and then drew in a deep breath. Because that breath contained the tainted air of the Ministry, it did not soothe him as much as a turn in his own garden would have, but the action was useful in reminding him of why he was here.  
  
 _Patience. No wolf is tamed in a day._  
  
He bowed to Potter’s back, for his own satisfaction and to court the curiosity of anyone passing by, and then chose the path that would take him out of the Ministry to the front door. He preferred to Apparate rather than Floo when he could, for the sake of his robes.  
  
*  
  
“It’s more open than anything they’ve done in years.” Hermione’s face was distressed, and she wasn’t even out of Harry’s fireplace before she started trying to open the satchel she carried over her shoulder. Harry went to help her when she stumbled, showering soot and pieces of paper on his carpet. Harry glanced quickly at the nearest one and nodded grimly.   
  
_PROPOSED HOUSE-ELF CONTROL LAW #324_ , it said in brilliant lettering.  
  
“Sit down and tell me about it,” Harry said, escorting Hermione to the couch. He’d been sitting in the library and reading up on Ministry werewolf law when Hermione Flooed him, and it was easiest to have her take his seat, arrange her paper on the table beside the couch, and then call Kreacher to prepare a glass of warm pumpkin juice for her, which she liked better than anything else when she was upset.  
  
Kreacher bowed and squeaked when Harry gave him the commission, and vanished again. Hermione leaned her elbow on the ancient, tapestry-like cloth of the couch and gave Harry a pointed look.  
  
“Can’t help it,” Harry said mildly. “You know he would be miserable if he was free.”  
  
Hermione seemed to recover herself with a physical jerk. “Yes, but there are others that aren’t,” she said darkly, and then handed him the stack of parchment that she’d brought along.  
  
Harry read quickly through it in the way he’d learned to scan legal documents and contracts demanding his signature, letting his eyes pick out the key phrases and the sense of the paragraphs rather than worrying himself with what every word meant. The intent of the law tried to mask itself with delicate legal language, but it was all too clear: the Ministry wanted to ensure that no house-elf could legally be freed without penalty. If it happened accidentally, the owner could still be fined. Free house-elves who worked for pay at the moment would have to find another owner as soon as possible who would give them nothing more than food.  
  
The language was full of jargon about “threats to our traditional way of life” and “the need to have the voices of a minority who feel attacked listened to,” but Harry knew it might as well be a bolt aimed at the heart of Hermione’s mission to educate people about treating house-elves better.  
  
“If they can do this,” Hermione said, sipping at the juice Kreacher had brought her, “then they can do anything. They can persuade anyone that it might be dangerous to free house-elves, or even to treat them with something like kindness.” Her mouth firmed and her eyes flashed. Harry was glad to see that. At least it proved that she wasn’t completely discouraged. “And who knows what happens from there?” Hermione continued, her voice softening until it sounded like leaves falling to the ground. “They could decide that we’re being too ‘kind’ to werewolves by having Wolfsbane on the market, or anything else they like.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Yes, they could. And it’s absolutely heinous, Hermione, and we’re not going to have it.”  
  
Hermione shook her hair out of her eyes with a little sniff and studied him. “We’re not?”  
  
“Of course not.” Harry refrained from pointing out that Hermione would have been stupid to come to him if she thought he could do nothing. She wasn’t stupid; she was simply distraught. He stood and handed her back the stack of parchment. Hermione straightened it with quick, neat fingers, staring at him all the while.  
  
“Harry,” she said at last, as if she was referring to a bit of food he didn’t know he had in his teeth, “you’re _grinning_.”  
  
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you usually grin when your enemy hands you a perfect opportunity to prove your point?”  
  
“I suppose I do,” Hermione said. “But I really don’t see how this is it. You don’t know how many people have contacted me and complained, more or less politely, about free house-elves. Even when they don’t live anywhere near them. Even when they don’t have house-elves! They’ll jump on this law with glad little cries. And there will be others who get braver when they realize how many people are supporting them.”  
  
“That’s true, of course,” Harry said, and strode to his fireplace, taking a bit of Floo powder from the dish on the mantle. “But they’ve finally crossed a visible line. This is something that has _no_ purpose except to ease pure-blood fears. No one can make any excuse for it. The Ministry isn’t really even trying. And _that_ will persuade some people who have been uneasy about the Ministry, but never agreed with me, that it’s time to act.” He cast the powder into the flames.  
  
“Harry, I don’t really see how artists can do anything to help this.” From the sound of it, Hermione was wearily wiping sweat from her face and trying to prepare herself to oppose him. “It takes time to paint a portrait or make a sculpture, and then, a lot of people won’t see it or respond to it.”  
  
“Did you think painters and sculptors were the only kinds of artists I knew?” Harry grinned at her over his shoulder. “What a lot you have to learn.” He leaned forwards and whispered the name into the fireplace. “Catham’s Nest.”  
  
Behind him, there was silence at first, and then Hermione began to chuckle.  
  
*  
  
Lucius paused. He allowed himself to stand still for one whole minute, ignoring the way that other people brushed past him like elk past a unicorn, and then strode to the display that had caught his attention.  
  
Since the war, the Lovegoods’ _Quibbler_ was a more popular paper, but Lucius still rarely saw it competing with the _Prophet_ for space on stands outside the Diagon Alley shops. Those who wanted it knew where to find it, and the Lovegoods and the _Prophet’s_ publishers alike seemed perfectly satisfied with that relationship.  
  
But this time, Madam Malkin had made an exception, and Lucius could see why. The front page of the _Quibbler_ was entirely dominated by a cruel, hilarious caricature of the Wizengamot, every nose and beard exaggerated, sitting around a table and staring menacingly down at a cowering house-elf in chains, much smaller than they were. Behind them, wizards stabbed each other with daggers, used what was recognizably the Cruciatus Curse, and lobbed the Dark Mark into the air. (Lucius stroked his left arm appreciatively; he had no doubt that the caricaturist had worked from life). Under the house-elf were the large words, THE GREATEST THREAT TO OUR SOCIETY.  
  
Lucius laughed aloud. He did not care who heard him. Of course, it was a small, still chuckle like the laughter of water in a desert. He was not one to toss his head back and make a spectacle of his amusement.  
  
But he did slide a Sickle into the small slot on the stand that released the defensive spells protecting the papers from the top one, and pick it up, and take it with him. He carried it so that anyone who might not have seen the cartoon so far could make it out.   
  
There was no need for the signature dashed into the corner of the painting. Lucius knew it would read _Frances Catham._  
  
Catham specialized in creating political cartoons and caricatures that skewered the powerful and wealthy, and then wriggling out of the consequences thanks to a sister who was a well-trained lawyer. She’d had to vanish into hiding a short time back, as there had been serious threats against her life, but of course Potter would know where she had been hiding and would have persuaded her to do this.  
  
Lucius had no doubt at all that it was Potter’s doing, though the breathless _Quibbler_ article on the proposed law to restrict the freedom of house-elves (and their owners, as the writer had carefully slanted it) never mentioned him. He knew only one individual with that interest in opposing the Ministry and that amount of power in the art world.   
  
_Congratulations, Mr. Potter_ , Lucius thought as he reached the edge of the alley and prepared to Apparate. _You have managed to interest a second in your quest_.  
  
*  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes and looked skeptically at Frances, whose face floated in the fire. It was a thin face, a rat’s face, used to dodging around corners. Harry couldn’t really judge her for that. If the Ministry had done its best to destroy him, then he would have dodged around corners, too. He had a protection of sorts in his fame and popularity, no matter how many unpleasant things he said about the Ministry.  
  
“You’re sure?” he demanded.  
  
“Sure, sir.” Frances ducked her head and squeaked, her bright orange hair, tied in a tight braid, swinging forwards and hitting her in the forehead. Harry had to roll his eyes. Frances acted as if she was dandelion fluff about to blow away in a strong wind, but Harry knew she was probably collecting materials for her next caricature as they spoke. He certainly wasn’t above being a victim in her drawings, as Frances had been careful to let him know the moment they met. “The donation was made anonymously, but no special effort was taken to hide the name. The goblins were sure. Lucius Malfoy made it.”  
  
Harry leaned back, linking his hands together behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. He had completely redone Grimmauld Place, and Kreacher had gone on an enthusiastic cleaning mission the moment he moved back in after the war, but he thought he could still see the remnants of ancient cobwebs clinging to the rafters. Maybe they _were_ ancient, he thought. Spun by giant spiders. Spiders that were sentient and descendants of Aragog.  
  
Yes, his brain made no sense. But a donation into the private fund that he kept to support Catham and artists like her who were persecuted by the Ministry made even less sense, at least when it came from the Malfoy vaults.  
  
A new thought occurred to him, and he lowered his head and found himself able to smile at Catham again. “Perhaps some kind of condition was attached to it?” he suggested hopefully. “Some kind of curse?” He didn’t _want_ there to be, but at least that would mean it made some kind of sense.  
  
Catham shook her head, eyes wide and alarmed now, as if she had caught the hope and was wondering if he was mad. “No, sir. Just that Lucius Malfoy had made the donation, and it was in ordinary Galleons, transferred from his own vault to ours. The goblins couldn’t tell them from any other Galleons a moment after they had poured them inside the vault, sir.”  
  
Harry leaned his elbow on the wall and stared out the window. At the moment, it showed a brilliant blue sky that didn’t actually exist above London and the tossing branches of a pair of trees that didn’t exist, either. Harry watched the sunlight wash through the leaves and wished his mind could pick up serenity from them.  
  
But no matter how long he thought about it, he couldn’t fathom Malfoy’s motives. Of course he might have wanted to gain Harry’s goodwill and use the money to seduce him, but wouldn’t he have let Harry know he intended to hand over the Galleons when he did it? And surely he would have hinted something at the Ministry the other day.  
  
Besides, thinking he could buy Harry with money seemed too…  
  
Harry rolled his eyes over the word, but it insisted on rising to the surface of his thoughts.  
  
Too _crude_ for Lucius Malfoy.  
  
Harry shook his head and turned back to Catham, who, after all, hadn’t caused any trouble and was still waiting for an answer. “You can accept and use the money,” he said. “And tell anyone else who has a key to the vault that they can, too.” He’d given keys to several of his friends who were in the same situation as Catham, because he didn’t want too much money under the control of one person. “By the way,” he added, suddenly realizing he had never asked in his shock over the mere fact of Malfoy’s donation, “how much did he give?”  
  
“Ten thousand Galleons, sir.”  
  
Harry swallowed, then carefully reached up and tilted his jaw shut. The gesture was as much for Catham as him, and she smiled hesitantly and stopped looking as if she wanted to crawl inside her own mouth. Harry shook his head.  
  
“It’s a generous gift,” he said. It was the only thing he could trust himself to say at the moment that was both safe and true. “Well. Yes. As long as the goblins think there’s no curse on the money, it’s probably safe.”  
  
“Thank you, sir,” Catham murmured, and then vanished as she pulled back from the Floo connection. Harry stared into the flames and realized that, once again, he had neglected to stop Catham from calling him “sir.” She always looked so timid when he confronted her that one more order seemed like too great an imposition.  
  
 _But someone who can survive on the run from the Ministry as long as she has isn’t really timid_ , Harry thought, as he rose to his feet.   
  
_And someone who can do what Malfoy did, while at the same time speaking to me about art the way he did, is playing a deeper game than it appears on the surface._  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. He had confounded several of his enemies before by resorting to directness instead of intrigue. He wanted to know why Malfoy had made such a donation.  
  
 _And, when in doubt, ask._  
  
*  
  
Lucius set his glass of water blessed by the horns of unicorns down precisely on the table beside him, and then leaned forwards to study the image the wards had cast into his enchanted mirror more carefully.  
  
It did not change, however he stared. It was Harry Potter outside his gates, arms folded, scowling, kicking the stones like a sullen schoolboy, but real.  
  
Lucius inhaled, and then released the breath and his smile at the same time.  
  
 _Well. This is an unexpected gift._  
  
And he would receive his gift with all due courtesy.  
  
“Bell,” he said, calling to his favorite house-elf, the only one who was trusted to clean among his private papers, because the others would throw important letters away if left to work by themselves.  
  
There was a subdued crack beside him, and Bell appeared with a neat bow. Everything about him was neat; even the hairs in his ears, such a source of grotesquerie with most house-elves, were trimmed and formed a fan pattern instead of the scraggly mess that Lucius, and, he knew, other house-elf owners were accustomed to seeing.  
  
“Master wishes something,” Bell said. It wasn’t a question. He folded his hands in front of him and waited.  
  
“Yes. Master Harry Potter is standing at my gates at the moment.” Bell’s eyes widened. He knew what it meant when Lucius called someone by the title of “Master,” implying that he wanted Bell to as well, which was a rare honor. “Escort him within and make sure he is _quite_ comfortable.”  
  
“Master,” Bell said, with a bow and something like a reverent breath.  
  
He was gone in the next instant, and Lucius stood and traveled down the grand staircase to the room he was certain Bell would choose.  
  
It was impossible for him to enter this room without feeling a sense of relaxation. It was crowded with furniture, chairs carved in a pattern of dragons and phoenixes so elaborate there was hardly any space on the chair arms for the human arms to rest. The same carvings entwined most of the legs, though with dragon heads on phoenix bodies and the other way around as well. The size of the room combined with the chairs lent it a comfortably labyrinthine feel. There were bookshelves, standing well back from the great fireplace, and enchanted windows with a double layer of insulation, so that there was no chance of the snowy scene they usually showed making anyone feel chill. The dominant colors were brown, fawn, and a pale, subdued yellow that Lucius knew was made to resemble sunlight.  
  
He thought it would appeal to Potter. He sat in a chair placed directly before the fire and waited.  
  
Potter appeared a moment later, escorted by Bell as if he had always been a welcome guest. He walked stiffly, Lucius noted, like a wolf challenging the leader of the pack while not sure if he was ready for the fight.  
  
Lucius smiled. He could overlook the implied challenge in the magnificence of the fact that Potter had come to him at all. He had not thought that he would receive this gift. He had pictured their liaisons taking place in the old Black family home, and not even sentimental memories associated with his wife could cause him to demonstrate more enthusiasm than a grimace at the idea.  
  
Potter sat down in the other chair before the fireplace and immediately turned it so that they were facing each other more directly. The gesture told Lucius more than any words could have what sort of mood his compatriot was in.  
  
 _Very well_ , Lucius thought, and sat up with an intelligent, listening expression on his face. It was the sort that made it less easy to be shocked by whatever Potter had to tell him.  
  
“I want to know what you mean,” Potter said in a low hiss, “by making a donation to the fund that I control for artists who are persecuted by the Ministry.”  
  
“What have you construed it to mean?” Lucius asked, genuinely interested.  
  
Potter swept one hand in front of him at throat height. “That doesn’t matter. Tell me the truth.”  
  
“Oh, it does matter, very much,” Lucius said. These were the sort of remarks that he would ordinarily have kept to himself, but he suspected that Potter would like to hear them. _Or perhaps needs to_ , he added silently as he watched Potter’s eyes widen with shock. “At the moment, there is nothing that matters more to me in the world than what you think.”  
  
“Speak the truth.” Potter’s voice was an impressively deep tone now that resounded from the center of his chest. Lucius held back his impulse to laugh. He doubted that Potter would take that the right way. “That is all I ask.”  
  
“I did it because I saw Catham’s cartoon,” Lucius said, with a shrug that he knew made him look like a cobra flaring its hood. “And that made me into an admirer of your work, an acceptor of your crusade.”  
  
“One drawing did that,” Potter said, regarding him with such open skepticism that Lucius would have liked to lean over and touch his cheek. Yes, he was beautiful, but there were some expressions that his face should never wear, and this could have used a bit of shock to sweeten the mix. “Right.”  
  
“Why, Mr. Potter, what have we been discussing since we met again but the power of art?” Lucius placed his hand on his chest, fingers splayed wide, but on the right side, so that it could not possibly have been covering his heart. He saw Potter note the wrongness of the gesture. His eyes went flinty. _That is well_ , Lucius thought. _I dread only to see them indifferent, bored, blank_. “What artists do you shelter but those who will move the public by the power of their work, those with enough independent spirit to survive outside the Ministry’s system of patronage? Do you deny that this particular drawing could have moved me?”  
  
They sat in comfortable silence—well, at least it was comfortable for Lucius—marred only by the grinding of Potter’s teeth. Then Potter said, as if throwing a piece of meat to a dangerous dog to see what it would do, “You’re only interested because of me. Not because of what the art could mean for the future of the wizarding world.”  
  
“Well,” Lucius said, stretching his words to delay the arrival of the one that would infuriate Potter, “yes. Of course.”  
  
Potter gave him a glare that seemed intended to fuse him to his chair. Lucius looked calmly back. “Do you intimidate many people with that look?” he asked, when Potter showed no inclination to give it up. “It would do you good to realize that not everyone reacts the same way.”  
  
Potter crossed his arms. “I don’t want people to be on my side because of me,” he said. “I want them to be on my side because of what I stand for, the principles that I fight for.”  
  
Lucius laughed. “Do all your artists really agree with that? Do you imagine that they all oppose the Ministry as fervently as you do? Is that something you require? Or do you allow them to exercise their own genius instead of demanding that they bow to something other than beauty?”  
  
A sharp flash crossed Potter’s face, as if he stood in the shadow of lightning, but it was gone before Lucius could be sure that it was the doubt that would have been most pleasant to him. “Put it this way,” Potter said slowly after another interval of silence. “Yes, the people I support usually aren’t going against the Ministry for the same reason I have. But none of them are doing it for _me_. They have passions. They have principles.” His gaze rested on Lucius, deep and acrimonious as a poisoned sea. “You don’t.”  
  
“I would not be so sure that you can sound the utmost depths of my soul without even an anchor,” Lucius murmured. A deep, pleased flush wanted to steal over his skin. He repressed it, but it was a difficulty. _No matter what he might think of me at the moment—and I can hardly ask for a good opinion immediately—Potter is still thinking of me. Two weeks ago, I did not even exist for him. I call this progress._  
  
“Fine,” Potter said, bringing one hand down on the arm of his chair as if he assumed that it would stand up and hurt him next. “Maybe you have passions and principles related to art. Fine. I don’t care. But you’re not allowed to have them related to me. You’re not allowed to make a donation just because of me. I’ll return the money before I let you do that.”  
  
“That seems rather petty,” Lucius said, “giving back Galleons that your artists desperately need, and that you could use to do more good and spread more power outside the Ministry, simply because you resent what you think is an insult applied to you.”  
  
Potter’s eyes went as dark as those of a panther on the hunt. Lucius leaned back and waited for the show.  
  
*  
  
Words tangled together behind Harry’s teeth, so many things he wanted to say at once that he didn’t know which one to let out first.  
  
 _That’s not the point.  
  
I don’t want anything to do with_ you, _no matter why you’re doing it.  
  
I can do enough good without you.   
  
I’m tired of being worshipped. _  
  
The last statement was the first to die, because, of course, Malfoy wasn’t worshipping him, no matter what happened. Harry still couldn’t quite credit any of the motives that he came up with, at least as they applied to Lucius Malfoy, but he knew it wasn’t the disgusting self-abnegation that someone like Willowwand or so many of his “fans” since the war indulged in.  
  
At least he drew in a breath and said, “I’ll keep the money. But whatever credit you were hoping to establish with me is shot.”  
  
“I would not seek to establish credit with you, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy said smoothly. “You are not a bank.”  
  
“Look,” Harry said, leaning forwards, “I know you want to fuck me.”  
  
It was a stab in the dark, but Malfoy could not hide the way his eyes flickered with greed.  
  
“None of this will get you any closer to doing it,” Harry said flatly. “You don’t know it, but I made a vow when Ginny Weasley died. I will never take another lover. What heart I had for things like that was hers, and she carried it into the grave.”  
  
Malfoy looked at him carefully. Then he bowed his head and said, “I can respect such things. I have heard of them, though I believe most pure-bloods no longer make those sorts of vows. Our ancestors had a higher regard for principle than for passion, to return to your description of those glories I am not allowed to have.”  
  
 _Lucius Malfoy thinks principles a glory_? But Harry wasn’t going to allow himself to be distracted. “I didn’t make that vow because it was a pure-blood tradition,” he said. “I made it for me.”  
  
Malfoy smiled. His face had more flexibility than Harry had been willing to attribute to him, once. His smiles were deeper and richer in meaning than the sunlight that Harry imagined him avoiding, given how pale his skin was. “I know that,” he said, voice still soft and intimate. “But I was giving you the context of my respect. I do not think you would have believed me if you had not heard the reason.”  
  
 _Probably not_ , Harry thought, and scowled harder.  
  
“I _do_ know more of you than to think that you would sleep with someone for money.” Malfoy was the one to break the silence this time, his hands moving as gracefully as the branches of young aspens. “I have heard how you served that unfortunate young man at the Ministry who thought his exploits were enough to entitle you to his favor.”   
  
Harry couldn’t help a half-smile. It was the way Malfoy pronounced _unfortunate_ , as if it were a less noxious substitute for many other words.   
  
“Accept the money as a gift,” Malfoy said. “And accept my truth as well. I did make the donation the same day that the drawing came out. It was that which convinced me you have power on your side and some chance of changing the Ministry, instead of burning out as so many other would-be revolutionaries have done.”  
  
“This isn’t a revolution,” Harry murmured, uncomfortable with the words for some reason. _Perhaps because he still seems to think I’m doing this alone, and he doesn’t think about the artists who really do the work_. “It’s just—a change. Giving people more options.”  
  
Malfoy gave him a long smile, as if to say that he knew better, and said nothing.  
  
Harry sighed and stood. “I reckon there’s nothing else I can say that will change your mind or make the situation any clearer for me,” he said.  
  
“No,” Malfoy responded simply. “But you might do as your reputation claims you do, and take my words at face value. They are the truth.”  
  
Harry looked at him. “If I took every word at face value, do you think I would have lasted as long as I have as an art patron? Sometimes, Malfoy, you think you’re complimenting me, and it ends up as a much worse insult.”  
  
Malfoy rose to his feet, and Harry instinctively moved to the side, so that they would have more distance between them but he wouldn’t seem to be backing off. Malfoy’s eyebrows twitched, but he said only, “I think you distrust me for the wrong reasons. Someone might be as interested in your—change—because of you as others are for the art, just as many people might choose to challenge the Ministry and not have your reasons. Will you demand ideological fidelity from everyone who offers himself as an ally?”  
  
This, at least, Harry had the counter to. “No,” he said clearly, meeting Malfoy’s eyes. “Only the people who once tried to kill me.”  
  
He waited, but Malfoy stood still, and Harry turned and followed the elf that had already appeared to lead him out of the Manor, satisfied that Malfoy would trouble him no more for the future.  
  
Once he returned to Grimmauld Place, he was forced to put such unimportant matters out of his head. Hermione was waiting with news that threw them into shadow, as they should be.  
  
*  
  
 _Perhaps I deserved that._  
  
Lucius was aware as he sat down again and summoned Bell to give him a plate of food that he should not have been so struck by the words. He was an expert at finding light conversation that would parry the accusations of former enemies. Potter’s attitude and facial expressions already mattered to him too much, if they made him feel as if he should have run after the boy and explained.  
  
 _No. A boy no longer. If he was, this situation would never have arisen._  
  
Lucius bit into the soft, fine cheese, one of six kinds that Bell had selected for him, and admitted the truth to himself. Or at least another truth, since his conversations with Potter so often offered him new ones.  
  
 _This will take longer than I thought. I will need patience and stamina to hunt him, and I should be prepared for him to turn on me often with nasty surprises.  
  
Am I sure I wish to do this? To expose myself to such wounds because I cannot help granting him some measure of power over me? _  
  
Then he thought of the way that Potter had faced him today, when Lucius had seen something better than beauty in the clear green eyes: strength as flexible and patient as the ocean.  
  
 _Yes. I am sure._


	5. Fox

_Dancing to hypnotize the rabbit, avoiding the trap._  
  
“You’re sure?” Harry stared at the piece of parchment that Hermione had handed him and shook his head several times. He was already sure, even before Hermione replied, but it was an extra confirmation, and that was pleasant when his head was swimming with bewilderment and wonder.  
  
And suspicion.  
  
“Yes. He really wants to meet with you, Harry.” Hermione leaned forwards, biting her lip. “Apparently he takes the threat from Catham, or the people that Catham might stir up, seriously. There were rumors running through the Ministry that he intended to do it after the cartoon, but I didn’t think it would come to anything. Or at least not such an open decision, and so quickly,” she added as an afterthought.  
  
Harry nodded. The Ministry was not exactly known for swift action, particularly when one of their precious political positions was threatened.   
  
Yet it had happened this time, and he only wished he knew what made this situation so different from any other. He looked down at the letter and read it again.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Potter:  
  
We are concerned about the agitation that is breaking out in our community, concerned about the erosion of long-held wizarding traditions, and concerned about those who feel that their voices are not being heard. To reconcile these competing claims, which are always present but seem to be especially prominent on the house-elf issue, we have decided that we will include as many representatives as possible of all sides in a meeting. We would like you to attend as the representative of those who feel disaffected from the Ministry and in need of a revolution.  
  
We look forward to your prompt reply.  
  
Minister Osgood Superbus._  
  
Harry was quiet for a long time after he’d finished the letter, turning it over and over in his hands, and resisting the temptation to crumple it up into a ball. He had known Superbus was smart; he had come out of absolutely nowhere when he felt he was ready and organized a shaky coalition of different people into one machine with the driving purpose to get him elected. He’d easily ousted Shacklebolt, who hadn’t made enough friends during his time after the war, and maintained control ever since by oiling the machine that supported him with bribes, concessions, threats, and a mastery of rhetoric that Harry could see in this letter. Harry had never thought the Minister was stupid, only too lofty to be concerned by the relative minority position that Harry represented. Most people were still more willing to work with the Ministry than to try and survive outside it. The offers to court Harry back had been made to him as an individual, and by people who probably acted with the Minister’s approval but were not him.  
  
And now…  
  
“I don’t know that I like this,” Harry said slowly. “For one thing, speaking like this—”  
  
“ _Writing_ like this,” Hermione corrected fussily.   
  
Harry smiled in spite of himself. She wouldn’t be Hermione without a few pedantic corrections. “Writing like this, he controls the conversation. He’s making me out to be leading a revolution, and I’m not. He’s acting as though I regularly attend meetings like this, and I don’t.” Hermione looked unconvinced, so Harry gave the final and strongest reason, but also the reason that he knew Hermione would oppose. “He’s acting as though I’m some sort of leader of all the artists who have taken great risks,” he finished quietly, “instead of someone who’s funded a few of them and done a lot of sightseeing and rowing with the Ministry.”  
  
“You know that people like Catham think of you as a leader,” Hermione insisted. “Would she have drawn that cartoon if you hadn’t told her about the issue? If you hadn’t asked her to?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry snapped. He rubbed his forehead. It had felt as though a twinge had run through his scar, but he knew that wasn’t true. It hadn’t hurt since Voldemort died. When he was stressed, though, it felt that way. “And anyway, because Catham thinks it doesn’t make it true. Can you see someone like Risa Turner calmly obeying me? Or Giles Burne-Jones? Or, God forbid, Luke Thornsley?”  
  
Hermione laughed reluctantly. Like Ron, she knew all about his dispute with Thornsley. “It’s less about obedience and more about cooperation, Harry. You’re still the best-known person who works with them.”  
  
Harry sat gazing at the letter for some time more, then shook his head. “There’s just too much in the wording of this that I don’t like,” he said. “You’re much more the expert on legal matters, Hermione. Ron can go if they want someone to talk about the corruption in the Auror Department. There are artists who still work for the Ministry sometimes if they want a voice about art. But if this is really about the house-elf dispute, I’m not the best person. And if it’s not about the house-elf dispute, then I still don’t want the whole thing to be identified with me and not the people who are actually doing the work.”  
  
Hermione sighed. “You could do so much good by lending your voice to this, Harry—”  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Do you think I’m not lending my voice enough already? And my face?”  
  
Hermione sat in silence for a minute, biting her lip. Harry watched her curiously. Once, her agreement that he was doing all he could would have been instantaneous.  
  
Now, Hermione took a deep breath, and met his eyes, and said, “It’s just that you _could_ do more. You could let people paint your portrait and work out bargains with them in return. You could establish a counter-organization to the Ministry, instead of championing individual artists, and lots of people would join in a heartbeat. You could pay for artworks that got the message you want across instead of paying for artworks in general. There are lots of things you could do, yes.”  
  
Harry smiled. One of the reasons he and Hermione had stayed friends after Hogwarts, when they no longer had schoolwork or fighting Voldemort to tie them together, was that she was one of the few people who wasn’t afraid to be honest with him. Ron was honest, too, but he tended to blurt out things that were not quite true by _Harry’s_ standards. Harry could punch him, if necessary, and then forgive him. It was different with Hermione, who had a way of phrasing things that made Harry calm down and listen.  
  
“You’re right,” he said. “You’re completely right. What I object to is not so much doing that as the consequences of doing that.”  
  
“What would the consequences be?” Hermione stared at him earnestly.  
  
“That I’ll wind up with a lot of power I shouldn’t have,” Harry said. Hermione started to speak, but he shook his head. “No, hear me out. I don’t mean that I’m not fit to wield power or that I’m not worthy or any of those other spineless Gryffindor martyr-sayings I would have used ten years ago. I mean that, for the future of the people who are trying to build something outside the Ministry, it’s better that I don’t have that control. I’m one person. I can be corrupted or bribed or get tired. If I don’t take over, though, then there are a whole bunch of people still working and doing good, a whole bunch of different centers. And decentralization of the wizarding world was one reason I started all this in the first place.”  
  
“Yes, I can see what you mean,” Hermione said at last. “So what are you going to do?”  
  
“Give Superbus my congratulations and my condolences,” Harry answered, picking up a quill that lay on the table nearby, “and not go.”  
  
*  
  
The cartoons by Catham continued to appear. And then Lucius started hearing a new song, hummed by the younger people at first and then turning up on the wireless, about a crusty old pure-blood who was so obsessed with rebellion among his house-elves that he didn’t know his manor house was literally falling down around his ears. It was harder to attach a name to that one, but Lucius recognized the signature nasty little choruses of Angela Washburn, one of the singers the Ministry had frowned on after she started acting like one of the old satirical bards.  
  
Everywhere he looked, he saw the Potter-led effort to resist the new Ministry law gaining momentum. People might not have known what they were responding to, but they did respond, and the legislation was discussed far and wide among people Superbus must have hoped would never hear about it, or care if they did.  
  
And it was sparking new resistance movements among those who might not care about house-elves, but could see the consequences of a law like that clearly enough. The werewolves were organizing meetings. The merfolk who lived in the lake outside Hogwarts came to the surface and demanded to speak with a human who knew their language. For the first time in history, there were rumors that the Centaur Office in the Ministry had been used by an actual centaur, though no one Lucius knew could confirm them.  
  
Things were moving.  
  
Lucius knew what Potter would say without asking him. There were certain words that seemed prone to spring to that mind of many colors, those green eyes that liked to pretend they were helpless and dull but were the furthest thing from that, that bright careless bundle of racing thoughts and unknown influences. He would say that the rebellion had been building for a long time underground, and that the people taking the opportunity to say their piece weren’t people he commanded or could ask allegiance from. They were self-interested actors or beings who might be surprised to know that there _was_ any friction between Harry Potter and the Minister.  
  
Potter would say that, yes. But it wouldn’t make it true.  
  
Lucius moved through his days with his eyes more open than ever before, his mind tuned to the pulses of the common mind around him. Usually, in tune with the common mind was an awful place to be, but he did not find it so this time. Someone had induced that muddy, sluggish, frequently yawning and easily entertained mass to _think._  
  
Someone who could do that, and not even realize that he had done so, or demand the credit for it, was someone who tightened Lucius’s groin and throat, and made his blood race with new interest.  
  
The world swirled and raced and surged. Lucius had sometimes likened the currents of society to the currents of a stream. One could be swept away by them, yes, but wizards had been damming waterways and using them for pleasure as well as power centuries before Muggles had thought of the idea. If one knew the proper system of gates and locks, when to raise a dam and when to destroy it, one could wash away those who opposed certain convenient policies and strengthen those who stood on one’s side.  
  
Potter had done it from a position outside the center of society, and in such a way that other people got the idea from him and did the heavy lifting. He wasn’t tirelessly attending meetings or urging people forwards; in fact, Lucius had learned from impeccable contacts that he had avoided the highly publicized meetings Superbus was using to try and hold back the waters. He went on quietly doing what he had always done. The ripples spread out from him. Encouragement, and not pushing, was his philosophy.  
  
Lucius paid more attention than he had ever done because this was evidence that Potter’s philosophy _worked_.  
  
And that was the situation in which things stood on the morning that Draco came back from France.  
  
*  
  
Harry hesitated as he stepped into the pub where he was supposed to meet Ernie Macmillan. Their first meeting had gone well, but Macmillan had admitted that he would need more support than Harry had yet decided to give in a month when he’d also purchased Risa’s studio, so they had agreed to talk it over a second time. That was normal.  
  
But something was wrong.  
  
People weren’t talking in the way they should be. They kept their eyes on their drinks, and drank hastily, as if they thought they should get out of here as soon as possible. Harry saw more than one person crouching down and shooting swift glances at the door as if they expected someone to recognize them and didn’t want that to happen.  
  
Harry looked over his shoulder, but no one had come in behind him. When he turned back again, he realized that the free-floating nervousness had focused on him, as if he were the one that had promised violence.  
  
Harry shook his head. He had wanted to meet at the Broken Barrel, where people would ignore him most of the time, but Ernie had preferred this Feral Werewolf, and Harry hadn’t cared enough to argue. He wondered now if he should have.  
  
Still, for the moment there was no enemy showing himself, so he went to the bar and asked for a Firewhisky. The bartender shoved it at him, and Harry caught the glass neatly in one hand before the drink could spill and dropped a few Galleons in response. Then he turned around and sat down at a central table that no one else seemed intent on occupying.   
  
At that point, someone unfolded from the shadows at the door and strode towards him, and people began to scramble out of his way. Harry, eyes narrowed against the glare of light from the door, thought it was Ernie at first. But he didn’t understand the aggressive way the bloke was walking. Had he heard that Harry had cheated someone, or was he simply that angry about their failure to come to an agreement?  
  
Neither, Harry saw when he got closer, because it wasn’t Ernie. It was Willowwand.  
  
Harry didn’t have a wall to put his back to, but he palmed his wand and raised an eyebrow. The appearance of unconcern could sometimes do the work of the real thing. He doubted that would happen this time, with Willowwand so enraged, but it was something he had often kept in mind, and sometimes weapons he didn’t think would fend off an enemy did.  
  
Willowwand slashed to a halt in front of the table and slapped it with both hands. “Did you think you could get away with what you did to me?” he hissed.  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry said, and found himself drawling the words. _Who am I imitating_? he asked himself, and then knew it was Lucius Malfoy. He would have rolled his eyes, but Willowwand would have thought the gesture directed at him, and the last thing Harry wanted was to escalate the situation. “Are you the messenger of official punishment from the Ministry?” he added, in a tone that he kept as uninterested as possible.  
  
“No,” Willowwand said. “They seem frightened of your power and influence, and refuse to punish you at all.” He drew his wand.  
  
 _Or else they recognize that you’re a little tit and deserve it_ , Harry thought. He watched Willowwand’s hands carefully. He didn’t have Auror training, and therefore it was inevitable that he didn’t know all the spells and curses Willowwand knew. On the other hand, being around artists had taught him some magic that outsiders would be surprised they knew, and he was utterly sure that Willowwand would underestimate him in his anger. “So this is vigilante behavior?” he asked.  
  
“Nothing vigilante about it,” Willowwand said, aiming his wand, “compared to what you did to me. You didn’t need to do that.” For the first time, audible hurt crept into his voice to be a companion to the rage. “If you wanted to avoid a date with me that badly, you could have _said_.”  
  
“I tried,” Harry said tiredly. “You didn’t listen.” He cocked his head. “Do you really want to do this?’  
  
“More than want to,” Willowwand said. “It’s a holy passion with me now.”  
  
 _And that’s the problem with him all over_ , Harry thought. _If he had looked like that but not said it, he would have seemed a bit noble, not pathetic and ridiculous. I like people who are subtle, who don’t shove everything they are in your face on the first meeting, who let you draw your own conclusions.  
  
People like Lucius Malfoy_.  
  
Harry did hiss in annoyance this time, though it was annoyance with his own brain and not with Willowwand, but his thoughts didn’t distract him enough to keep him from casting before Willowwand could. _He’d_ begun another speech about how much he hated Harry and everything to do with him; Harry was using a spell he’d seen Risa use when she wanted to cover her canvas.  
  
“ _Miniatus_.”  
  
The ceiling appeared to tremble, and then an enormous wash of red paint fell upon Willowwand. It splashed hard enough to make Harry raise a hasty Shield Charm in his own defense, and he saw a few people ducking under their tables. Others sat staring, mouths open, and didn’t appear to notice when they nearly swallowed the paint.   
  
And then, after a stunned silence Harry didn’t think his little effort deserved, there came the laughter.  
  
Willowwand, trying futilely to wipe paint out of his eyes, gave Harry a look like he wanted him to burn alive. Harry shook his head, stood up, and tossed some more Galleons at the bartender without taking his gaze away from the furious Auror.  
  
“I was supposed to meet a friend here,” he said. “Tell him there was a bit of a delay, but I’d love to see him this afternoon at the Broken Barrel. And let me know if there are any damages.” And he turned and strolled back into the afternoon sunlight.  
  
He thought, briefly, of appealing to the Ministry and asking them what they intended to do about the behavior of one of their Aurors, but someone who opposed the Minister couldn’t ask him for favors. And besides, Harry thought word of what had happened here would travel back to the Ministry fast enough.  
  
*  
  
“Good morning, Father.”  
  
Lucius looked up from his lunch of smoked goldenfish and nodded to his son. He had felt the wards move when Draco entered the house, so at least he was not caught by surprise. “Draco. Did you have a pleasant time in France?”  
  
“Tolerable,” Draco said with a sigh, taking a seat across from Lucius. Lucius had chosen to lunch in the High Dining Room, so called for its position in the front of the house that allowed him to see across the neatly manicured gardens and over the gates to the brawling, coarse world beyond. Generations of Malfoys had enjoyed the view for the contrast between their domain and the one outside. Lucius liked it as a way of reminding himself that that world never ceased to exist merely because he had left it behind for a time. “I’d forgotten the tedium of the secrecy that goes with adultery. Ellen was more nervous of revealing our joys to her husband than she has been.” He paused meditatively. “To tell you the truth, I think she wants a child, and of course she can’t risk bearing one to me.”  
  
Lucius nodded and cut another piece off his fish. He was glad to find that Draco was not so lost to all propriety that he needed to remind him to guard against bastards. To bed someone was one thing, to sire a child outside of the direct Malfoy line another entirely, since they might someday make trouble over the inheritance.  
  
“I heard an interesting rumor in France, Father.”  
  
Lucius looked up. The fish was properly cut, and he had only to lift the fork to his mouth. From the intense way Draco was staring at him, however, he doubted he would be allowed to eat it in peace. He resigned himself to sitting back and raising an eyebrow. “Did you? Do tell.”  
  
“The rumor says that you intend to take another lover,” Draco said. By now he was leaning forwards, his hands gripping the edge of the table. Lucius flicked a glance at the grip, and Draco sat back in his chair as if burned, but he didn’t stop staring, so Lucius had not accomplished everything that it might have. “They say you’ve chosen Harry Potter to fill that place.”  
  
“The rumor is incorrect,” Lucius said peaceably, while he debated whether he should ask Draco to identify the source of the gossip. No, he would not; it was just as likely that the source was Draco himself as someone else who could be found and silenced. Besides, only the cowardly acted as if they were afraid of rumors and could not allow them to spread. “I don’t seek Potter as a lover.”  
  
Draco blinked at him. “But before I left, from what you were telling me—”  
  
“I seek Potter as a companion,” Lucius said, “a conversationalist, someone to talk to. He has interesting opinions about art and about politics. It is good to remember that not everyone speaks my language, and not everyone holds me of account or importance in the same way I hold myself. At one point, my enemies fulfilled that role for me, but now most of my enemies are dead or have no quarrel with me. I hope that you will learn the necessity of having someone like this for yourself, Draco. It is always good to remember that our viewpoints are not the only ones that exist. A few of your ancestors supported people who had tried to kill them in luxury, at least as long as they would tell them the world’s honest opinion of them without flinching.”  
  
Draco sat still with his mouth open, which Lucius had always thought an eminently unattractive habit. He frowned, and Draco shut it again and ran his fingers through his hair.   
  
“So Harry Potter will never come into the Manor?” he asked doubtfully. “So he will never sleep in my mother’s bed?”  
  
“I am afraid that I cannot gratify your first wish,” Lucius said. “He has already visited to speak with me, perhaps because he is concerned about the very rumors that you mentioned.” He would not tell his son the real source of that visit, because Draco still did not understand the extent of the Malfoy fortune and was jealous of anything that he thought diminished the amount of Galleons he would inherit. “As for the second wish, of course he will not.”  
  
Draco sighed in relief.  
  
“Narcissa kept her rooms feminine enough that I am afraid they would not at all suit Mr. Potter.” Lucius shook his head. “A pity, as some of the colors would flatter him, but one cannot argue with taste.”  
  
Draco sat upright as if someone had pulled on all the strings that controlled him at once. “You told me that you weren’t considering him as a lover,” he whispered harshly.  
  
“Not _only_ as a lover,” Lucius said delicately. “As a conversationalist and someone who can remind me of the limits of my own vision, yes.” He gestured at the window and the fence. “Extensive as our estate is, it does not cover the globe. I will do all the better for having someone in my bed and at my side who does not have the same standards as I do.”  
  
Draco said, “I won’t let you dishonor my mother’s bed by bringing someone like _him_ into it. I’ll act against you. I’ll cast a Memory Charm on you.” His face in the light of the sun looked thin and pale and desperate.  
  
Lucius watched his son with detached disappointment. He still had not learned that, when threatening someone, the first rule was never to reveal one’s exact plans.  
  
“I’m sure you might try,” he said, when some moments had passed and Draco had done nothing but tremble like a desert flower in the breath of rain. “But I will not permit it to happen.” He lowered his voice for emphasis, because he did want to reach his son and he thought this might suffice for that. “Your mother has been dead for seven years, Draco. That should be enough time to recover from her loss. Enough time to think that I might take someone else. You know I have had my share of lovers, as you have had.”  
  
“A lover is one thing,” Draco spat, closing his left hand into a fist as though he gripped a nettle. “But a permanent companion is something else. Even if you get rid of Potter later, how are we going to last through the _laughter_?”  
  
“Do you know many people who would laugh at the acquisition of Harry Potter?” Lucius asked in surprise. “I must confess, I do not. Yes, he will prompt speculation and gossip if he leaves me.” _I do not intend that he should_. “But that would be the case with any lover I took. Only the degree, not the kind, of interest would be different.”  
  
Draco turned his back with a sharp motion that reminded Lucius of a hawk wheeling around its perch with a broken wing, and walked across the room to stare out the window himself. Lucius took his long-neglected bite of fish and watched Draco’s back, waiting for his decision. He would like to have his calm agreement with this decision, or, failing that, his indifference. Draco hardly made Malfoy Manor his home anymore, and he must know that Lucius would never marry again or sire a child who would compete with Draco for the inheritance. There was no reason for him to care about this alliance.  
  
Unless…  
  
“Does the rivalry of your childhood still trouble you?” he asked curiously, and had the satisfaction of seeing Draco flush rose before he turned around.  
  
“Of course not,” Draco said too quickly. “I just don’t think this can last or be real. You know that he has reason to hate us. We were on opposite sides during the war.”  
  
“Some people choose not to let the war define their lives.” Lucius took a few more neat bites before he continued the conversation; Draco waited in suspense until he did. “Potter has not, or he would be an Auror by now and still only in communion and association with Gryffindors. Instead, he is a powerful patron in the art world. And in politics,” he added. “I do not know if he realizes how powerful.”  
  
He hoped that Draco would pursue that interesting line of inquiry, but Draco twitched his head and just kept steadily following the less interesting one. “It doesn’t matter, Father. We’re always going to be different, and if you reach out to court Harry Potter, you’re trying to bridge a gap that you’ll fall into. And won’t you look ridiculous _then_?”  
  
Lucius smiled. It was the first conversational move his son had made since his return that deserved applause, and had it not been for the emphasis that ruined the effect, it would have been perfect. Lucius did hate to look ridiculous, and Draco had known that and sought to use it against him.  
  
“I do not believe I will fail,” Lucius replied calmly, “or I should not have begun this hunt in the first place.”  
  
“Hunt.” Draco seized the word, which Lucius had cast out partially because he was curious how Draco would react. “Potter hates to be hunted. You know that. He hates the pursuit and the attention. Word has it that he hasn’t dated anyone since his Weasley died, no matter what the _Prophet_ says. How are you going to court him when he hates the process of courting?”  
  
“By giving him what he wants, and needs, and enjoys,” Lucius said. “And because I do not intend to _press_. I will draw back and give him space if he needs it.” He could have laughed at the look on Draco’s face, but he politely refrained. “He is a beautiful wild creature, Draco, or like one, in his love of the open and his love of extension and depth and height. That is another reason I think he might come to prefer me. I can afford to give him those things where many others might not be able to.”  
  
Draco shook his head stubbornly. “He’s too different. He’s too alien. He’s _Potter_.”  
  
Lucius smiled. “That has ceased to matter to me since I realized how beautiful he was.”  
  
Draco paused, eyes narrowed. Lucius suspected his words mattered to his son in a strange way, but he didn’t know why. Draco snorted in the next moment and said, “ _Beauty_. Are we talking about the same man? Potter wouldn’t know what beauty was if it bit him on the arse.”  
  
“He dresses well,” Lucius said. “But that is not what I mean. He carries a beauty within him that shines through his features.”  
  
“Is he more beautiful than Mother?” Draco pressed forwards as if he intended to make a charge and upset Lucius’s plate into his lap. Lucius did not bother to steady his utensils, however, because he knew that Draco would never be so vulgar.  
  
“Is Sirius more beautiful than the Pole Star?” Lucius shook his head. “I am attracted to him, Draco. I was attracted to your mother. I want him, and I wanted her. That is the simple truth, and that is the reason that you will not convince me to put him aside, if you want to convince me of that.”  
  
Draco lowered his eyes and said nothing for long moments. Then he turned away with a harsh grinding of his teeth and said, “I can’t prevent you from doing this, Father. But I think you’re making a mistake.”  
  
“Thank you for your gracious permission,” Lucius said, with lighter irony than he might have used otherwise. Draco had given in too easily when he had objected for so long. He was planning something, and Lucius would be alert to what it was and break its neck before it left the nest.  
  
*  
  
Harry smiled tightly as the magnificent bird landed in front of him. She was a black owl with white slashes along her wings, and she had enormous golden eyes that usually made Harry feel like she was considering how many pieces she could tear him into with her massive talons. She was Minister Superbus’s owl, and she fit her owner.  
  
After looking at him for so long this time that Harry thought she had almost made up her mind not to let him have the message after all, she huffed slightly and extended her leg. Harry took the parchment from it, never glancing up from those wicked claws, and then retreated to a safe distance. The owl fluttered her wings into place and turned her head away from him.  
  
Harry had better things to worry about than the opinions of owls. He opened the letter, which was sealed with the Minister’s personal family seal of snakes crawling over a tree draped artistically with strands of ivy, and settled down to read the scolding it undoubtedly contained.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Potter:  
  
You have made your position clear, and given satisfactory reasons for excusing yourself from the meeting. But the disturbing rumors that have undoubtedly reached your ears by now—the rumors that concern the punishment of Aurors by ordinary citizens and the continued mocking of dedicated Wizengamot members by scurrilous artists—make your presence imperative. No one else has your range of allies, or your skill with diverse areas of the wizarding world. You remain a hero to all of us, and your input is needed as well as desired.  
  
Attend me in my office at one-o’clock on Thursday afternoon.  
  
Osgood Superbus, Minister of Magic._  
  
Harry folded the letter carefully along its original lines. He knew he was smiling, but he was also aware that the smile touched nothing but his lips.  
  
 _So it has come. An open challenge from the Minister himself._  
  
Harry had known it would happen someday. He simply hadn’t envisioned it happening quite so soon. After all, the Minister knew, if his spies told him anything like the truth, that Harry commanded nothing. He could request, and that was all he could do. The other movements that might be happening at the same time were discrete groups getting fed up with the paternalism of the Ministry. Calling him in wouldn’t make those movements stop.  
  
On the other hand, seeing Harry Potter surrender to the Minister would be a potent _symbol_ , and a message to the rest of the non-rebellious wizarding world that Superbus had things well in hand.  
  
 _On the whole_ , Harry thought, his thoughts crystallizing and drifting together with delicious slowness, _I am disinclined to give him even that much._  
  
He turned back to the owl, who surveyed him with scorn that Harry was sure made the air feel colder in front of her. That was another reason not to approach too closely, though he hardly needed a second one given what he was about to say.  
  
“No response,” he said.  
  
The owl’s feathers around her eyes stood on end. That was all the warning he had before she spread her wings and launched herself at him.  
  
Harry dropped to one knee; he still hadn’t entirely lost the reflexes that a few months of Auror training had imprinted him with, or that the war had given him before that. The assassination attempts had slowed, but never stopped, and there had always been the odd people who wanted to become his lovers and wouldn’t take no for an answer. The owl went overhead and sailed back around again in a circle. She never screamed. That was what made the assault so eerie. She simply extended her talons, ready to rake and pierce and part flesh.  
  
Harry raised his wand and murmured another useful incantation he’d picked up from Risa, though not the same one he’d used to deal with Willowwand. He didn’t see any point in soaking the Minister’s owl with red paint. “ _Abi, res accola_ ,” he murmured.  
  
The sharp tips to the owl’s claws vanished. She pulled up, hovering, screaming now with anger. Harry chuckled as he stood. The spell was one that Risa used to clean paintbrushes; it vanished whatever small object was nearest the wizard or witch but not actually being held on his or her body.  
  
“That ought to be a more than adequate response,” he said casually.  
  
The owl took her first route out his window, never looking back. Harry had to admit that he would have been disappointed if she had. This was his answer to the Minister. He wanted to see how Superbus was going to look when his favorite bird came back minus a body part.  
  
The best thing was should it go to court, Harry could easily claim he’d been defending himself. Veritaserum or Pensieve memories would show beyond a doubt that the owl had been swooping at him.  
  
Harry shook his shoulders to try and settle some of the tension boiling through him. He couldn’t stop smiling. He hadn’t envisioned the challenge coming this early, no, but it wasn’t a bad thing it had.  
  
 _Let him come. I’ll never abandon my principles, no matter what the temptation._  
  
Oddly, the image that came to him when he thought of temptation was not the money or honors that Superbus would surely offer him, but Lucius Malfoy’s smiling face as he laughed at something Harry had said in Malfoy Manor.  
  
At least that had the effect of sobering some of his triumph and turning his determination to steel.   
  
_Not even a temptation like that can make me turn aside._  
  
*  
  
Lucius was sure from the moment he entered the breakfast room that Draco had a secret. It was written in every movement he made, from the way he looked up with a calm smile to the way he nodded and said, “Good morning, Father.”  
  
But Lucius had determined that he would not question Draco, because Draco thought it made him look weak. Lucius nodded and sat down at the table across from his son. Bell at once appeared with a bow and handed him a plate with small, fluffy chunks of quail already prepared. Lucius accepted it and began to eat.  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow. “The decadence is starting a bit early in the morning even for you, isn’t it, Father?”  
  
Lucius said nothing, but went on eating. Draco didn’t know it, but he had told Lucius more with that remark than he would have with any other method, save explaining his business outright. For Draco to pick on something so small meant he was hiding something else momentous.   
  
Draco sighed. “It seems that decadence never starts too early for a few other people, either,” he remarked to the ceiling.  
  
Lucius could have said something about Draco’s grammar, but he only looked an inquiry and put another chunk of quail in his mouth.  
  
It seemed Draco had been waiting for that. “Harry Potter’s been arrested,” he said with obvious relish.  
  
Whatever result he had wanted, however, he was disappointed. Lucius swallowed and looked blandly at him. “Has he? Was it for breaking into the Ministry on his own and attempting to arrest Superbus? He does have an exaggerated moral stance.” _Or else he would never have made the vow that is likely to be such a problem for me._  
  
“It doesn’t say, actually,” Draco said. And yes, his face was tight and his voice so thick with tension that Lucius could have sliced it more easily than some of the toast he’d been served when Narcissa was still alive and had more control over the meals the house-elves cooked. Draco shoved his chair back from the table and glared at Lucius. “I would have thought you would be more interested, Father.”  
  
Lucius held out one hand. “If they aren’t defining the crime, then the arrest is either unjustified or was made for a reason they fear would exasperate the public and endanger their Savior’s future if they named it,” he said calmly. “Either one intrigues me, but does not lessen my interest in him. I wonder that you think it would.”  
  
“He’s a _criminal_ ,” Draco said, stressing certain words in the sentence more than Lucius thought they needed or deserved, especially when small flecks of spit leaped from Draco’s mouth into Lucius’s plate like diving kingfishers. He carefully performed a drying spell before he continued eating.  
  
“As I said,” Lucius said, “he is either innocent, or a Dark wizard. And in either case, I have an interest in speaking with him, seeing him, perhaps possessing him. It would depend on what Dark Arts he has used, of course,” he added thoughtfully. “Some of the spells are sordid enough that sleeping with someone who has used them would be like rolling in rotting flesh. I wonder about Rabastan Lestrange sometimes, I truly do.”  
  
Draco rose to his feet. “I have nothing else to discuss with you, Father,” he said haughtily, and then sailed from the room.  
  
Lucius finished his breakfast, because good food was never something he wished to see go to waste. Then he held out his hand and closed it into a fist three times. The air near his chair trembled.  
  
The creature that appeared next to his chair resembled a house-elf in the same way that a sparrow resembled a falcon. Lucius waited as it bowed to him and spoke in a gravelly language that he understood perfectly well. While Lucius cherished beauty, he had never let ugliness deter him from learning useful knowledge. The knowledge could then be used to protect the beauty, and everyone won or succeeded.   
  
“What can Ichor do for Master?’  
  
“I need certain information that can be located in the Ministry of Magic,” Lucius replied in the same tongue. “Information concerning the arrest of Harry Potter. Come back to me when you have learned it.”  
  
“Master,” said Ichor, with another bow. Lucius eyed the gleaming iron claws on his hands with appreciation. He had nearly lost an eye to one of those claws when he first tamed Ichor. Some creatures had the strangest requirements before they would enter service.   
  
Then he was gone, and Lucius stood up and went into his study. He had more information to request, but it would give him pleasure to inquire after it himself and thus remind several people that he existed and they should have his best interests at heart.   
  
_And depending on what I learn, there are certain other people who may need to be reminded of who I am._  
  
*  
  
“I don’t think you can actually hold me here without a trial and without telling me what I’ve done,” Harry said helpfully, smiling at the Auror they’d assigned to guard him. He shifted to ease the tight pressure of the rope around his wrists. “There are laws about that kind of thing.”  
  
The Auror turned her back on him. She was tall and far too slim. Harry wondered if she was one of those who thought that being able to feel your ribs meant you were healthy. Her hair was an odd dark maroon color, which to Harry said “accident with Dyeing Charms,” and coiled on top of her head. She hadn’t spoken to him yet, but she did twitch and look guilty when he talked to her, so Harry decided to keep at it.  
  
“All I did was dump paint on an Auror,” he said, “an Auror who was about to assault me. And he’s Cale Willowwand. I doubt that many of you in the office like him, either, or I would have been arrested when I tied him to the ceiling.”  
  
His guard’s eyes flickered to him and then away. Harry leaned forwards, coaxing. “You can tell me. Do you like him? Does anyone, except maybe his reflection in the mirror?”  
  
That time, he definitely got a quiver of the lips and a tiny shake of her head.  
  
“Then, _logically_ ,” Harry said, stretching the word out until he saw another quiver of her lips, “there can be no objection to what I did to him.”  
  
The Auror coughed and stood up straighter, as if she was trying to remind herself that, after all, he was a criminal. “He is a good Auror,” she said. “He has the record for most arrests in the Department.”  
  
“And what if half his arrests were like this one?” Harry raised his bound wrists again. “Or simply obvious? I don’t think there’s any great skill in Apparating to the scene of a disturbance and arresting someone who has his wand out and is obviously guilty.”  
  
“They aren’t always like that,” the woman insisted, but Harry could tell from the weakness in her voice that she didn’t believe it herself.  
  
Harry leaned in confidingly again. “Even one like that is too many, don’t you think? And I know that no one who ever tried to talk up Cale Willowwand ever mentioned how annoying his personality was.”  
  
It seemed she might have answered, but someone knocked at the door of the small, blank office Harry was being kept in then, and she had to go answer it. Harry leaned back against the chair and shook his head.  
  
They’d arrested him in the middle of the night, somehow under the impression that that would terrify him to the point that handling him wouldn’t be a problem. Harry smiled. He always cast a Seeing-Eye Charm on his face at night before he went to sleep, which meant he could sit up and see his “faceless attackers” perfectly in the darkness.  
  
When he’d recognized the Auror robes, he had made a snap decision. He would go along with them and let them make the arrest. For one thing, they both looked uneasy about it, their “hard” voices wavering, and Harry was sure they hadn’t wanted to be there, so it was useless to punish them for something their superiors up the ladder had decided. For another thing, Harry was eager to see what political fallout Superbus would create for himself if he actually took Harry into custody.  
  
There was no way that the news would stay secret. One of the Aurors would probably talk, and then there were so many people who still watched Harry’s house avidly for a story of some kind to prop up one of the many small, wavering saplings of newspapers that had become popular in the years after the war. Harry wouldn’t be able to control all the publicity, but he would control enough.  
  
 _Ginny would be disappointed in what I’ve become_ , he thought, as he settled back in the chair and waited for the furiously whispering Auror at the door to come back. He would make her an ally if he could.  
  
But Ginny was a precious memory to him for more than one reason, in this case because she could remain untarnished and bright in his heart, like a silver ring he didn’t handle often, and then cased up again. He loved her still, but he’d had to learn to live without her.  
  
 _And to live in the world_ , he thought, wondering what could be taking his guard so long.  
  
When she came back to him, her face was ivory, and she simply pointed over her shoulder for an explanation. Harry looked, fully expecting that Superbus had come to him for a slow waltz of intimidation and threats.  
  
Instead, Lucius Malfoy stood there smiling at him, his hands encased in silver-grey gloves just as they had been the last time Harry saw him in the Ministry. He stroked his cane as if it was a real, living snake he must soothe. His eyes contemplated the chair on which Harry sat and the bonds around his wrists with a bit of disdain.  
  
Harry arched his eyebrows and let himself slump more. _If he still desires me, this ought to quench it. Why would he want someone who’s still scruffy from last night’s interrupted sleep, someone who, as he would see it, let the Minister arrest him?_  
  
“Good day, Malfoy,” he said. “Come to gloat?”  
  
*  
  
Lucius had once learned the statistics about how tall and heavy the Ministry of Magic was, and how many offices it contained. He reminded himself of these facts now because it meant that he was less likely to bring down the building with an inappropriate winter wind of rage if he thought about how much weight would fall on his head.  
  
 _And Potter’s._  
  
His eyes were still undimmed in their brightness, his hair not much wilder than it usually was. But the bonds they had put on him had chafed his wrists, and the chair they had seated him on would hurt his back if he remained in it for the hours and days Lucius was sure they had intended him to remain. Because he looked cheerful and inquiring and even as if he had chosen this did not mean he deserved the indignity.  
  
But Lucius felt a sweet icy burn race through him when he realized how challengingly Potter looked even at him, instead of cowering and wondering what would happen if Lucius took a photograph of him captive and sold it to the papers. So many people Lucius had known who attained a kind of celebrity became slaves to the rumors and reflections of their appearance.  
  
 _That is one way in what I know about him does not fit with the way he behaves. He bears the careless arrogance that might make one think he was confident in always appearing attractive, but he is not conscious of his beauty._  
  
Lucius’s hand twitched on the cane with the impulse to reach out and stroke Potter’s cheek. He restrained it. It would imperil both his ultimate goals and the reason he had come here today.  
  
He conjured a chair for himself and cast Cushioning Charms on the one Potter sat on. That earned him a narrow, considering glance, as if Potter was trying to fathom why he would have bothered. Lucius sat down and arranged his robes before he spoke.  
  
“I have come to ask your pardon. It appears that you were arrested on the instigation of my son, Draco.”  
  
Potter’s eyes widened a gratifying amount at that, and he glanced at the door as if he expected to see Draco following Lucius like a shadow following a falcon. Then he said, “And you got in here by presuming on other connections like the ones that allowed your son to get me arrested in the first place, I suppose?”  
  
Lucius smiled, for he understood the distaste in Potter’s voice as well as he would have the tarnish on a piece of silver. “Yes. But such connections to the center of power are not always a bad thing, Mr. Potter. If one is joined to the sun, one orbits it in company with other planets, many of them of great power and beauty.”  
  
Potter appeared to miss the emphasis Lucius had wanted to put on the last few words, and the new softness of his tone, completely. In fact, his eyes had taken on a hard glitter that reminded Lucius of the jewels that many sculptors had used for his eyes in statues of him down the years. Small the chance to find emeralds that would match them, of course.  
  
“But the Ministry is not the sun,” Potter said, voice so soft that he sounded as if he were threatening someone, “and connections may be tethers.”  
  
Lucius inclined his head. “Of course the exchange of favors does become tedious. Of course all of us would rather be free to act as we please. But such independence is impossible in the world we actually possess. Even you have acknowledged that, or why would you seek to act in cooperation with artists?”  
  
“I’m less interested in talking about politics in general than politics in particular, right now,” Potter said. Lucius frowned. He had many things to thank his son for in this matter, but among the more distasteful was the jarring note in Potter’s voice that interrupted the music it made for Lucius. “I had my own theory. Several times now, after an initial disagreement, I was supposed to meet with an artist Giles Burne-Jones had recommended to me, to see if he wanted my patronage. Each time, he wasn’t there. And the first meeting he missed, Cale Willowwand ambushed me instead. I dropped paint on him and left the pub. I’m sure, now, that this artist accepted money to set up meetings where I could possibly do something that would give the Ministry ‘good cause’ to arrest me, though only the first one worked.”  
  
“I have asked connections if something like that might have happened,” Lucius said. “But they have revealed that, even if those matters complicated the business, it was my son’s direct request that brought you into this situation.”  
  
Potter smiled. Lucius delighted in that smile. It had the dark shine of jade. “And why should I trust your word?”  
  
“You need not,” Lucius said. “I myself find an exquisite pleasure in distrust. Turning the words of compatriots and co-conspirators over in my mind and finding the way their luster diminishes or increases based on the light that I show them to is one of the many ways I amuse myself.”  
  
“And you amuse me,” Potter said, letting his gaze linger on Lucius as if that would enable him to figure out the truth. “Why is that, I wonder?”  
  
Lucius would have frozen if he had been capable of so vulgar a stillness. Potter said that he did not trust him? But this one statement revealed far more of his inner heart than Lucius had heard him expose so far. Potter avoided statements about himself as if they were statements about a badly-written poem.  
  
Here he was, handing this fact about himself to Lucius, speaking casually at the same time. That indicated that he felt comfortable enough to turn the conversation so that it touched on his emotions, comfortable enough even not to notice.  
  
It filled Lucius’s mouth with water and tightened the sympathetic line that often seemed to run between his throat and his groin.  
  
“If you keep staring at me like that,” Potter said, “I’m going to get a complex, or at the very least start thinking that I have food in my teeth.”  
  
Lucius allowed his stare to linger for a moment anyway, because beautiful gift should be repaid with beautiful gift, and then said, “Yes. I imagine that you want to be free. I have already arranged that. Draco’s connections to the Ministry are more recent and less powerful than they should be. Some wizards still respect tradition, Mr. Potter, and others respect raw power or artistic skill. You are felt, by a certain proportion of the wizarding community, to have a fair amount of both. They have pulled certain strings, and you are free now.”  
  
Potter twitched in his bonds. Then he said, “Would any of those strings connect to Superbus?”  
  
“Our beloved Minister is another such as I am,” Lucius said. “Desirous of being the sun, not the orbiting planet. No, none of my requests have touched him, and though you were not arrested at his command, he will no doubt be annoyed to find you gone.”  
  
Potter still hesitated. “I thought I should stay here, so that I could allow the controversy over my arrest to do him evil in the eyes of his enemies. It almost feels like obliging him if I leave too early.”  
  
“You do have another choice,” Lucius suggested. “Publicize the reason you were brought here. That would control an eruption that you may not be ready for, humiliate Draco, make wary the people he might depend on to try and inconvenience you like this in the future, and indulge me.”  
  
Potter blinked. “This eruption you mentioned. You think it will come without this?”  
  
“Oh, yes.” Lucius revised his estimate of Potter a bit. It seemed that he was not so aware of the changing currents around him, and how much the earthquake would take him as its epicenter but not its fault, as Lucius had thought. “And you need not worry about making an enemy of Draco, if you are. This is the best way to incapacitate him. Otherwise, he will assume that you were freed because the Minister simply chose to let you go or was afraid of you, and he’ll try again.”  
  
“Why would it indulge you?” Potter demanded.  
  
Lucius rose to his feet. “Because Draco, and certain other people, would know the real reason he sought to have you imprisoned.”  
  
“Which was?” Potter stared up at him.  
  
Lucius smiled at him. “Because he knows that I seek to have you, and he does not want anyone to take his mother’s place.”  
  
Potter’s stare altered. Lucius was pleased to note that astonishment charged his face with new depths of sunset-like light.  
  
“You are beautiful in this way, as in all others,” Lucius said, and then nodded towards the tall Auror, her hair dyed some vulgar color, as she came back towards them with an unhappy expression. “She will undo your bonds. Do enjoy your freedom, Mr. Potter.”  
  
Potter’s stare changed again. Lucius chuckled as he strolled away from the Ministry, because it had its element of fury.  
  
But he trusted in even that as an attractive element. It was indifference that made people into motionless Muggle portraits, not fury or amusement or interest. Potter would come to him and yell at him, or demand to know why.  
  
And Lucius would have answers that would tug him further into a world lit with many colors.


	6. Falcon

_Falling, at great speed, from a height._  
  
Harry hesitated, then nodded and wrote down the last line of his letter to Luna, setting out the particulars of how he’d been imprisoned at the instigation of Draco Malfoy and then freed by his father. It made a strange story even to read it, and his friends had stared at him with disbelieving faces when he told them about it.  
  
“It couldn’t have been someone wearing Polyjuice, could it?” Ron had asked, his voice hopeless.  
  
“I’d like to know who would have the courage to imitate Lucius Malfoy in the middle of the Ministry,” Hermione had murmured, eyes narrowed. “But I reckon it was really him.”  
  
“It was,” Harry had said.   
  
He was glad they didn’t ask him to explain the basis of that conviction. It would have had to come down to confused murmurs about the way Malfoy stood and held his head and looked at Harry as if he were made of gold, and that would produce stunned shock, more than even disbelief, in Hermione and Ron.  
  
Harry could scarcely believe it himself.  
  
He sat there now, looking at the letter, and considered crumpling it up instead of sending it, the same way he had seven different times. If displayed, it would please nobody, certainly not Draco. Harry’s supporters could explode in a fury of righteous indignation at the Malfoys the way he had imagined them doing at the Minister, and while Draco would fully deserve it, Harry could envision this becoming a side row that would drag them away from the important business of challenging the Ministry.  
  
He looked at the lines that he had written in the center of the letter, and felt his lips curve in a small, smug smile.   
  
The printing of this article would not please Lucius Malfoy, either, since Harry gave the full credit for his freedom to him. But it would have been dishonest to conceal the matter, Harry could imagine himself saying innocently. He wanted people to know that Lucius Malfoy was kind and disinterested when it pleased him to be.  
  
He could, of course, have left that out. And Harry would have done so in an instant, if this had happened a month ago.  
  
 _But a month ago is not now_ , Harry thought as he scooped up the letter and went to find a post-owl in Diagon Alley. _Circumstances change all the time. It’s only fit that people do so if there’s occasion for them to do so_.  
  
*  
  
Lucius knew when the newspaper arrived the next morning, not because he was awake to receive it, but because Bell came to rouse him from a sound sleep and ask for orders about “the young master’s raving in the drawing-room.”  
  
Lucius dressed himself with care in front of his mirror, letting Bell assist him whenever the little elf spotted a crease out of place or a bit of dust where it shouldn’t be. He smiled at his reflection. He didn’t think he had looked so relaxed since Narcissa died. It was a pleasant expression, molding the lines of his face in a way that he liked. He touched his cheek and decided that this was the expression he would wear to the exhibition of Burne-Jones’s paintings next week, where he fully expected to see Potter.  
  
The door of his wing rattled under a series of thunderous knocks. Bell turned to face it, ears trembling in indignation. Lucius raised his eyebrows and never looked away from the mirror.  
  
“Let my son in, if you would, Bell,” he murmured.  
  
“Is Master being sure?” Bell’s ears twitched again, but at least now he was looking at Lucius and was the picture of gracious poise that Lucius always desired him to be again. “Young Master Malfoy is being very loud.”  
  
“He is,” Lucius said. “I will not enjoy having him here. But I will enjoy him putting dents in my door even less.”  
  
That horrible prospect seemed to rouse Bell to action, and he hurried across the room, shaking his head and muttering on the way. Lucius adjusted the hang of his robes’ collar a final time, and then turned away from the mirror and took a chair in front of the light breakfast Bell had brought with him. Toast this morning, and soft, fluffy bread covered with already melted butter, and even softer scones covered with marmalade. Lucius liked bread. And as long as he was eating in the privacy of his own home, where no one could insult a taste that might have seemed rather plebeian, he saw no reason why he should not have it.  
  
He discovered a reason when Draco burst into the room and the force of his foot on the floor knocked a piece of marmalade-covered scone into Lucius’s lap. Lucius looked at it blankly for a moment while Draco began to shout at him.  
  
“It says here that you were the one to release Potter! What is the _meaning_ of this, Father? You not only use your connections to ensure that that bastard walks free, you not only disgrace the Malfoy name by courting him past all the bounds of propriety, but you also allow your name to be associated with his in a public article? I don’t understand you, and if you suffer from this because you _dared_ to try and find someone to replace Mother, it’ll be all you deserve—”  
  
Lucius looked up.  
  
Draco fell silent in the face of his look. Bell had already come to Lucius’s side, with a low wail rising from his throat, and swept away the piece of scone, so Lucius felt it no indignity to rise to his feet and confront his son. Draco backed a step away, and Lucius came around the table.  
  
“I have borne your presence,” Lucius said, voice never varying from the low, level monotone he had chosen for it at first. “I have borne your petulance. I have borne your little, low flirtations and adulteries and pursuit of pleasure with no indication of anything higher. But I will not bear _this_.”  
  
“What are you t-talking about?” Draco was stammering, but he seemed to have regained his composure sooner than Lucius would have hoped for. _I must remember that my son is no longer the small sculpture I could make with my hands while he was growing up_ , Lucius told himself as Draco stood up straighter and stared directly at him with hard eyes. “All I did was tell you that you should be following the rules of propriety a bit more closely—”  
  
“Your outburst,” Lucius said, “is undignified, and noisy, and unnecessary. You place yourself before me as an example of politeness? And this is the display that you would give me?”  
  
“I just meant,” Draco said, and then stopped there and left the sentence hanging.  
  
“Yes,” Lucius said. “You did not mean to use yourself as a pattern. But I have little reason to listen to you if you are incapable of obeying your own rules.” Deliberately, he turned his back on his son and sipped at the flavored water that Bell had brought him as part of his breakfast. “I demand better behavior from those who claim my name,” Lucius added over his shoulder. “You will leave Malfoy Manor in an hour.”  
  
“This is still my home!” There was genuine anguish under the surface of those words, but still more anger, which displeased Lucius. The only sincere emotion he would have been disposed to accept at the moment was penitence, and Draco was still a long distance from that.  
  
“Only at the pleasure of the current head of the Malfoy line,” Lucius said. “And I am still that. Leave my presence now.”  
  
The air behind him grew full of a charged silence. Lucius could imagine all the words that Draco longed to speak, ghosts of themselves that flickered around them both and needed to be carved in solid walls to become real.  
  
But in the end he said none of them, and simply slammed the door as he left. Lucius shook his head and turned back around. Bell bowed to him and said something about “Master Draco never being such a bad boy before, and how Bell is ashamed of him.”  
  
“Make sure that my son leaves the house,” Lucius told Bell. “Allow him to take anything he owns outright, but nothing for which he is in debt or which belongs to the family.”  
  
“Master Lucius,” Bell said, with what sounded like reverence, and then vanished. Lucius, listening hard, thought he could hear an outraged yelp from the direction of Draco’s wing a moment later.  
  
He sat down and finished his breakfast. He would take one kind of pleasure before he took another, and while he ate, he concentrated solely on the heat that filled his mouth, the fluffiness that dissolved before his teeth, and the sweetness that stroked the back of his tongue.  
  
Then he sat back and folded his arms on the table as he contemplated the exquisite, romantic pleasure of choosing a potential lover over a son, and casting the son who had displeased him from the house.  
  
It was a role that no Malfoy had played in centuries. Family was all. They were perfectly capable of conducting their love affairs with discretion, and children were perfectly capable of ignoring those lovers who displeased them, or finding some clever way into coercing their parents into giving them up. Had Draco done such a thing, Lucius would have applauded him and either ceased his pursuit of Potter or found some way to reconcile Draco to the company Lucius’s name would soon bear in the papers and the mouths of their social circle.  
  
For Lucius, cleverness and elegance did much, less only than beauty and power did.  
  
But Draco had done the thing clumsily, and he had reminded Lucius of loyalty to a woman seven years dead instead of his duty to his family. He had been crude and loud. He had believed, strangest of all, that he could threaten Lucius into agreeing, as if he were the one who held the name and the house and the vaults and the power.  
  
 _Have I truly presented such a weak figure to my son?_  
  
After several careful considerations of the matter, however, Lucius decided that he had not. He had been cold and generous, marble and gold, to Draco since Narcissa died, once their shared mourning was done. It was Draco’s fault if he had chosen to believe that he might carve gold simply because it was malleable.  
  
Even gold did not melt without heat, and Lucius did not believe his son to possess one spark of the particular spiritual glow needed to mold him.  
  
 _Potter possesses it in abundance._  
  
And so Lucius turned to his third pleasure of the morning, and wrote a letter to Potter asking to see him at once.  
  
*  
  
Harry shook his head in wonder as he stepped out of Madam Malkin’s, the place where he still did the majority of his robe shopping. He liked to be loyal to his memories and the past when he could.   
  
Not one person had come up to him this morning to ask for an autograph or to demand his opinion about some petty political issue that the Ministry was ultimately using as a means of distraction.   
  
That didn’t mean no one had noticed him. There were plenty of stares. There were plenty of whispers. But people seemed content to stare speculatively from a distance, and then turn away when they realized Harry was looking back at them.  
  
 _Malfoy was right. The whole world is shifting, and maybe I inspired some of it, but I’m not the one calling the tune to this dance._  
  
Another metaphor occurred to Harry as he walked towards the Apparition point, and he frowned.  
  
 _This isn’t a dance. This is a pile of kindling, and it won’t take much to light it. My arrest probably would have done it if it had lasted longer.  
  
And that’s the reason Superbus couldn’t possibly be behind it. He’s more cunning than to do that._  
  
Harry grimaced and Apparated. He hated to think that he had another enemy, but it was better to accept the inevitable than to ignore the obvious.  
  
He returned home to a pile of letters on the front table; he received so many that the post-owls that came often to his house had learned to deposit their messages on the only piece of furniture big enough to hold them. Harry picked through them, setting aside the marriage proposals and the letters that looked like petitions for later laughing or burning. That left only three letters, all of them sealed in an official manner and bearing names he knew. He retired into the library on the second floor, the one he had been in when Hermione came to tell him about the house-elf law, to read them.  
  
The first one was from Hermione, exultantly telling him that the Wizengamot had asked Superbus for “more time” to consider the law, and also “testimony from the other side.” Hermione, of course, had volunteered herself as an expert witness. Harry grinned. He might go to watch her speak in front of the Wizengamot. She was entertaining when she got into full flow, especially when the opposition wasn’t expecting her.  
  
The second one was from Giles, apologizing for Ernie Macmillan’s failure to meet Harry at all after the first meeting but subtly defending him from Harry’s suggestion of treachery. Harry had to reconsider. After all, he had been arrested at the instigation of Draco Malfoy, not the Ministry. It was possible that Willowwand had shown up at that first pub simply because he’d been tracking Harry’s movements and not because Macmillan had betrayed Harry’s location.  
  
And the third one was from Lucius Malfoy. Harry stared at it in silence for some time before he opened it.  
  
It was an invitation, courteously worded so as to seem less like a demand, that he visit the Manor at once. And it contained details that Harry hadn’t expected, such as that Lucius had expelled his son.  
  
Harry sat back and stared at the ceiling. Malfoy couldn’t _compel_ him to come, of course. He also hadn’t had to open his gates when Harry went to question him about the donation. And yet he had, and he had also been the soul of politeness in most of their encounters in public.  
  
And Harry owed him for his freedom, something he hadn’t wanted to think about. He had hoped that, by mentioning it to the papers and thus sharing the attention, he would irritate Malfoy enough that the other man would withdraw from contact. That hadn’t worked.  
  
Harry sighed. He was unused to this kind of pursuit. People who didn’t listen to him? Of course, they were common, and Willowwand was their exemplar. People who acted as if they had some special and secret connection with Harry, and he was the only one who could soothe their troubled hearts? Also common. There were even a few who had tried to intrigue him with downcast eyes and mysterious remarks. They didn’t understand that Harry’s heart was guarded from such things by the mysteries he had solved while he was still young.  
  
And also by Ginny’s presence.  
  
It was a shame that the memory of his vow to Ginny wasn’t enough, in and of itself, to guard him from Malfoy. It was even more unfortunate that he felt such an obligation to the bastard.  
  
Harry sighed again, and then accepted what his own curiosity as well as the debt made inevitable. He wrote a polite letter to Malfoy indicating that he had accepted his invitation and would be along some time in the evening to see him. Malfoy had said that Harry should come whenever it was convenient for him, and Harry thought that facing Malfoy as soon as possible and getting it out of the way would be best.  
  
 _Besides_ , Harry admitted, as he watched the letter wing away from him towards lunchtime, _there’s a much better chance that I can irritate him face-to-face_.  
  
*  
  
“Welcome, Mr. Potter. My house-elves are preparing dinner for us. Please make yourself comfortable until we’re summoned.”  
  
Potter paused in the entrance to the sitting room, staring at Lucius as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He probably couldn’t, Lucius thought, smiling at him. Of course it would seem strange to him that he was invited for a meal instead of an abrupt explanation and dismissal. By setting their meeting for the same day, he had been trying to provoke a confrontation of that sort, Lucius knew.  
  
But Lucius, if he was amused or exasperated by Potter’s defiance, knew well how to tip such defiance to his own use. He waved him again to a chair, and Potter slowly took it, darting glances at the walls in the meantime, as if he expected them to squeeze together and crush him.  
  
“What is this, Malfoy?” he demanded, when he had settled himself and faced Lucius again.  
  
 _That fire in his eyes_. Lucius dismissed a brief but unfortunately powerful vision of Potter bent over the low table between them, with the same fire irradiating his face and his naked body.  
  
“I summoned you to make an apology and to ask you questions,” he said. “Based on our latest exchange, but of course also the ones before that, when you so fascinated me. Is that not obvious?”  
  
“I don’t understand you,” Potter said bluntly. “You cast your own son out of the house for me? You’re inviting me for dinner when I pulled a trick that was impolite of me? You’re acting as though I’ve encouraged you to try courting me when I haven’t?” He tightened his hands on the arms of the chair and acted for a moment as if he would rise, but to Lucius’s delight, it was only a predatory tensing as if for a spring. “This is a lot of effort to go through for a fuck.”  
  
Lucius would have objected to the vulgar word, except that it entertained him even to watch Potter’s lips shape its hard consonants. He settled for a slow, burning glance that Potter could read disapproval in if he chose to.  
  
Potter retaliated with a hard glance of his own. His eyes had become so jewel-like that Lucius half-expected to find scratches on his skin the next time he looked down at his own body.  
  
“Does that not tell you, then,” he asked, pitching his voice lower still, “that I must desire something more?”  
  
“If you do, _I_ have no desire to supply it,” Potter snapped, and this time he did push himself to his feet. “An apology and questions, you said. So make the one and ask the other and be done with it.”  
  
Lucius shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “I shall do neither unless you agree to stay to dinner.”  
  
Potter shut his eyes and touched his temple as if he was developing a headache. “You frustrate me,” he mumbled. Lucius wished he could hear his voice more clearly, because Potter was beautiful when he expressed the full range of his emotions. It was the difference between hearing a French horn at a distance and hearing it close. “I don’t—look, I don’t know why you want all these things from me. I wish I did.”  
  
“I have tried to explain them to you,” Lucius said. He did not have a poor opinion of Potter’s intelligence, but he was beginning to have one of his stubbornness. Most of Lucius’s other lovers would have accepted what he told them, at least enough to begin negotiating over it. “I thought I had done a fine job of that in the Ministry.”  
  
“You can’t want me that much,” Potter said. “We’re too different. And your responses are out of all proportion to what I might be able to do for you. The donation? Getting me out of Auror custody? Rejecting your son?”  
  
“I have not _rejected_ Draco,” Lucius said, and chose a tone of mild, crystalline protest, because it was available to him immediately. He was more occupied with what Potter’s words had revealed.  
  
 _You can’t want me that much.  
  
Out of all proportion._  
  
Potter did not think himself beautiful, and he also did not think himself _worthy_ of such gestures as Lucius’s. Lucius had made them in the confidence that they would dispose Potter favorably to him, because why should anyone do such extravagant things for Potter who did not truly want him? But it seemed Potter had seen only the extravagance of the gestures, and not what might lie behind them.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” he said, “this is the first of my questions. Why do you think my responses are out of proportion? What do you believe you would be able to give me, if I did make a demand on you?”  
  
Potter relaxed at once, and even sat down again. Lucius wanted to shake his head. Honesty, yes, Potter responded to, but there were many kinds of honesty. It seemed that Potter had chosen this particular brand, the one that denigrated him and reduced his character, position, power, and beauty to its barest essentials, to become addicted to.  
  
“I could give you a chance to have more artists listen to you, perhaps,” Potter said. “I might get some of them to consider you as a patron. Maybe my most devoted fans would be inclined to give you more of an ear than they do now if I spoke for you. But that’s it. That’s all. I’m not going to donate money to your causes in exchange, because I’m persuaded that I would despise most of them. And I’m not going to get you out of custody or reconcile you to your son, because I don’t think you need help with either thing. And I’m not going to become your lover, because I swore a vow that I take as seriously as if it were one of Fedele’s sculptures.”  
  
In his eyes was a gleam that might have come off steel, but it was reflected in shining emerald. Lucius knew no artist who could have created such a shine.  
  
Lucius again wanted to touch, to caress, to hold Potter down and keep him so until he had removed all his clothes, to take _some_ payment for his weeks of hunting and watching and considering and favors.   
  
But that would be the thing that would most alienate Potter. So he had to content himself with words.  
  
“I wish you to reconsider,” Lucius said. “I do not demand anything from you, no introductions and no commissions, except that which you find it hardest to give. Your trust. Your loyalty. Your consideration. Your friendship. And, yes, your physical love.”  
  
Potter frowned at him. “What kind of person would I be if I renounced my vow?”  
  
“The kind who can change his mind,” Lucius said, “and thus who distinguishes himself as different from, and superior to, those like Minister Superbus, who cannot.”  
  
Potter gave a smile that seemed to come in spite of himself. “You have a point,” he said. “But I still don’t think that I can give you what you want.”  
  
“Tell me your objection,” Lucius said. “You have made peace with others who treated you unfairly in the past. I know that you spoke up for Severus Snape and made sure that he was honored as he should have been, posthumous Order of Merlin and all. What keeps you from doing the same for me?”  
  
*  
  
 _I believe you now,_ Harry thought. _I believe that words are art._  
  
Malfoy spoke in a fashion that Harry would have appreciated as eminently reasonable and sensible coming from anyone else. It was rare to find reason in the wizarding world. Harry prized it when he discovered it.  
  
 _But not when it came from someone who tried to kill me more than once, and who made others suffer.  
  
Even if what he says is true, and he’s changed?_  
  
Harry stared Malfoy in the eye, and saw nothing but sincerity there. But of course he would see that, wouldn’t he? Malfoy didn’t only use words as his art; he made his facial muscles display what he wanted to show, and he could dazzle many people with a simple tone shift in his voice.  
  
 _Not me, though._  
  
“I don’t think I could ever trust you,” Harry answered at last, “because I don’t know what your ultimate purpose really is. Severus Snape showed me his memories, and I learned why he had done what he had. Granted, that came too late, when he was dying. I wish I had known when he was alive. But you won’t give me access to your memories, will you? Or take Veritaserum?” He tried not to blink or look away, no matter how much Malfoy’s eyes glittered. To do that would be to show weakness.  
  
“No,” Malfoy said. “I won’t. What you can do is trust me, the way you would anyone else.” He looked highly entertained.  
  
Harry raked a hand through his hair. “Anyone else, I would have more reason to trust.”  
  
“Really?” Malfoy asked. “Are there that many people who have given you such gifts, then, and conversed with you so openly, and provided you with such conversations on art and politics, and been so interested in you, and asked only for interest and attention in return?”  
  
Harry made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. That sounded reasonable no matter how he thought about it.  
  
 _Then maybe you’re the one who’s being unreasonable. It’s been known to happen._  
  
Harry grimaced. He still hated swallowing the bitter pill of his conscience, but it had to be swallowed at times.  
  
“I—apologize,” he said. “You did give me all those things, and I’m being ungrateful.”  
  
“But?” Malfoy asked, his voice so soft and delicate it reminded Harry of snowflake biscuits he’d had at some of the art exhibitions, that were designed to melt on the tongue, leaving only a faint chill taste behind.  
  
Harry laughed against all his instincts. “You can still sense the objection, can’t you?”  
  
“Yes,” Malfoy said. Then he waited, his hands folded on his lap and his eyes fixed on Harry with what Harry had to admit was flattering attention. He’d never asked for homage from people like Willowwand and the rest of the wizarding world, but the nice thing about receiving it was that he’d learned to distinguish between several different kinds.   
  
Malfoy’s was the rarest kind: centered in himself, but reaching out to Harry.  
  
“I don’t think it’s the objection to you, so much,” Harry said slowly, “as that I swore a vow not to take another lover, and the people who have proposed to replace Ginny over the years have mostly been ones like Willowwand—people I don’t trust and would never dream of taking to my bed. So I placed you in that category at first without thinking about it.”  
  
“Remove me from it.” Malfoy leaned forwards, his voice so suddenly intense that Harry blinked at him. It was like thinking he’d touched a velvet hanging, maybe one of those Risa sometimes wove as a side-hobby, and discovered that it was actually made of diamond-edged steel. “Give me a chance. Let me show you why you matter to me, and what pleasure you can enjoy with me, without betraying the woman you loved and buried.”  
  
Harry blinked again. Malfoy raised one hand and let it hover over Harry’s shoulder for a moment, which, Harry had to admit, was more enticing than many caresses would have been.   
  
“I have lost my wife, too,” he whispered. “I know what it is like to love someone so strongly that you think nothing could ever take her place. And nothing _can_. I would not be taking her place, not trying to step into the mold that cast her closeness to you. I would instead be encouraging you to look around you and see beauty in more than one kind of art.”  
  
Harry half-closed his eyes. Malfoy’s voice, at least when he spoke like that, conveyed a strange feeling to Harry, not exactly sexual but more as though someone were touching him just lightly enough to tickle, and the feeling ran throughout his skin.  
  
“The vow you made concentrates overmuch on the love of the body,” Malfoy said, “when I know perfectly well that what you shared with Weasley was more than that, was also the love of the mind. It is to that that I appeal. It is through that that I have tried to show you what matters to me, what is important, and what is important to you as well, if you will but admit it. Forsake a vow that is unworthy of you, and let me in.”  
  
Harry was breathing hard, and he didn’t know why, and he didn’t know when he’d begun that. He lifted a hand and captured Malfoy’s with it, rubbing at the long, slender fingers, and the palm that had never known hard labor, and a mark in the center of that palm which stood up above the skin like a raised life-line. Malfoy leaned closer still. Harry could feel his breath, hear his heartbeat, taste his nearness.  
  
And he shook his head, and let the hand go, and leaned away.  
  
“Perhaps that vow _is_ stupid and unworthy of me,” he said. “But we’re all allowed some absurd decisions in our lifetimes. It’s a promise that hurts no one else. It only affects me, not anyone else.” He opened his eyes in time to see the lines of disagreement coiling around Malfoy’s mouth, and smiled back, gently. “No, not even you. You will find other lovers that can offer you what you want. I know you will. In the meantime, I’ll take that offer of dinner, and gladly. Conversations like this make me hungry.”  
  
*  
  
Lucius allowed Potter to change the subject. He allowed him to lead the way to dinner, and enjoy the delicately baked chicken in an orange sauce that the house-elves offered, and make small comments during the meal that anyone might have made.   
  
He allowed it because he was busy thinking about the objection that Potter had raised, and whether he found any merit in it.  
  
 _We’re all allowed some absurd decisions in our lifetimes._  
  
Lucius wished he knew a way that he could have explained that Potter’s decision was more absurd than most. Yes, he might claim that it hurt nothing and no one except himself, but was his pain to be such a small thing? Was he to miss out on the pleasures of the flesh because the woman he adored had gone to her grave?  
  
There were people who would say yes, but Lucius was not one of them. One mourned one’s losses and then continued. If he had not been able to live by that philosophy, he would still have been mourning the loss of his parents, or his prestige in the first war under the Dark Lord, and the long years it had taken him to work his way back into a position of trust with people who didn’t really believe that he’d been under the Imperius. The tears would have flowed without stopping.  
  
He had learned to live without tears, instead. He had learned to admire beauty and to think that he was entitled to touch some of that beauty, to caress it with light hands that would do justice to its qualities, to draw it nearer to him.  
  
It was possible that Potter might disagree, of course. But he had never engaged with the philosophical position that Lucius represented at all. He had simply assumed that there were people who would help him to keep his vow and people who would not, and restricted himself to the company of the first.  
  
 _I must represent to him what a loss it is, somehow_ , Lucius thought, as he watched Potter close his eyes in enjoyment of the chicken and wondered if he would look like that when he was enjoying other things. _And not a loss simply to myself. I doubt that he would care about that, so focused is he on denying me his bed.  
  
It hurts other people that Harry Potter is not all he could be, the same way that it would hurt others to see a wonderful work of art destroyed._  
  
Lucius knew what he would like to say. But he had taken a risk earlier, a much larger one than he could have imagined himself capable of taking, and had been rejected. What made him think that he could take another?  
  
Potter leaned back in his chair and said something about the Ministry. His eyes shone with a trace of gold from the fire.  
  
 _That does_ , Lucius thought. _But this time I shall make my approach indirectly._  
  
He waited until they were once more in the sitting room where they had sat before, this time both with glasses of white wine. Potter took a sip and then closed his eyes. His expression was one of perfect contentment, Lucius thought. He was no ascetic who denied himself the finer things of life because he somehow imagined himself superior to them. He was living, breathing proof, instead, that one could be beautiful, powerful, cultivated, and still stubbornly idiotic.  
  
Lucius waited until all the exasperation of the last thought had drained out of him. Then he murmured, “Tell me, Mr. Potter, if an artist paints a wonderful picture, do you think he has an obligation to exhibit it?”  
  
Potter opened his eyes slowly, as if he had to travel a long way back from whatever distance the wine had cast him to. Then he shook his head. “Why would he?” he asked. “Unless he made the work as a commission for someone else, I suppose, and that person wanted the picture publicly displayed.” He scowled thoughtfully and ran a finger along the corner of his mouth—not along his teeth, Lucius was relieved to note. “But outside that rare case, no.”  
  
“Why not?” Lucius took one more sip of his wine. He wanted the coolness in his mouth as a contrast to the rising excitement, which filled his mouth like the taste of spices.  
  
Potter was silent for some time, swirling his wine gently against the goblet, as if he were using the swishes and curls of those minor, pale waves to predict his answers. Then he looked up and answered, “It might sound quaint to you, but I believe in the freedom of an artist to control his creations. Not always, of course; once he’s displayed the painting, he can hardly prevent people from seeing it, or make them forget. But if he never shows it to anyone, simply keeps it and treasures it, then who can invade his heart and say that he should spill its gems open on the pavement?”  
  
Potter’s voice became richer when he was passionate, Lucius noted. He leaned forwards in his chair as if he wanted to make his point, but he held the goblet still so that the wine couldn’t spill out of the top. His eyes were so bright that it was nearly painful to look at them.  
  
 _Or at least to look at them while knowing I don’t possess him, and might never do so_. Lucius prepared to take his risk. As he had thought there would be, there was a hole in Potter’s argument.  
  
“But _is_ it a treasure?” he murmured. “It is worthy of the intense value that he would place on it by keeping it to himself? How can he say that for certain, until someone else has looked at it?”  
  
Potter shrugged, a motion that flowed with rather than ruined the symmetry of his body. “Maybe he wouldn’t _know_. But to someone who loved his own work enough, that wouldn’t matter.”  
  
“And he might be a solipsist,” Lucius said, keeping his voice light enough that it might seem only musing, “gazing into a self-enclosed world and delighting his eyes with his own colors and no more. But I suppose no one would know that for certain.”  
  
Potter darted him a tiny, suspicious glance, as if he thought that Lucius was making fun of him but didn’t know why he would want to. Lucius smiled serenely into his eyes. He had to win Potter through seriousness, but, later, he could see enormous possibilities for teasing him.  
  
“He would know,” Potter answered at last, slowly. “He would still go out and interact with other people. He would create other works of art that they _saw_ , and he would gain some estimate of his skill from that. I think you’re giving far too much credit to the idea that he wouldn’t extend his—his _soul_ past the boundaries that the painting created for him, just because he chose not to share it.”  
  
“Once solipsism begins,” Lucius said, “it can stretch to encompass an individual’s whole life. I should know. I have known many of those who follow that philosophy. And to have the potential to change the world and to refuse to is, I think, worse than to never have that power.”  
  
“No painting has the potential to change the world,” Potter said.  
  
“Really? Why, then, did you bother asking Catham to create that cartoon that so scandalized the Wizengamot?” Lucius met Potter’s strangled half-denial with a gentle grin.  
  
“That wasn’t what I meant to say,” Potter complained. “Bloody wine is going to my brain.”  
  
Lucius showed his teeth, gently, to let Potter know that he didn’t believe a word of that for a moment.  
  
“All right, that wasn’t fair,” Potter said, with a roll of his eyes and a little smile Lucius was glad he had not gone to his grave without seeing. “It was bad wording on my part. I meant that not every painting has the potential to change the world. And if you’re right that no one can fully evaluate his own work without using outside eyes, then how would he know that that work of art could have changed things? Perhaps he’s spared the world a lot of ugliness, instead. Or at least a lot of bitter critical rows.”  
  
“Power should be used,” Lucius said. “Power of all kinds. To make art, to sway minds, to clear the vision of those who labor under a cloud. It is worth nothing and can _do_ nothing when it lies locked away in a casket, let the casket be ever so jeweled.”  
  
“And what kind of power are you saying that I should exercise?”  
  
Lucius smiled. “I am glad that you are not always oblivious,” he said. “I am speaking of the power of your heart and your body, of course. Do you think that your fiancée would have asked you to make the vow you made?”  
  
Potter’s face darkened. He still set his wine down carefully, which Lucius appreciated. “I told you, that was all my idea. It had nothing to do with her.”  
  
“Your absurd decision,” Lucius said. “I remember. But still, do you think she would have demanded that you never share your bed or your heart with anyone again?”  
  
“No,” Potter said. “She was generous, and giving, and full of life.” He looked away, as though he assumed Lucius would use his grief as a weapon against him. “She would have married again herself, and she would have encouraged me to do the same thing if she had had time to before she died.”  
  
“Do you believe that sex is a source of unique power, so special that it must be protected?” Lucius asked.  
  
Potter turned back to stare at him. “What? Of course not. Maybe some people can get power and magic from sex, but I’ve never been one of them.”  
  
“Then why go to such lengths to protect it?” Lucius asked. “Why make _that_ particular vow? Why not vow, instead, to never give another person that place in your heart that belongs to her? Why not assume that you could have sex with someone else?”  
  
Potter shrugged. “I don’t know.”  
  
Lucius blinked. He had suspected that the basis of Potter’s decision was irrational, but he had not expected him to so blithely admit it. “Then why make the choice?” he asked, as soon as he had his breath back again.  
  
“I want to ask _you_ something for once,” Potter said. His eyes were beautiful even flickering with resentment. Lucius shook his head. Has there ever been anyone like him?  
  
“Oh, I see,” Potter said. “So you’re the only one who has the right to ask questions, then?”  
  
Lucius realized that Potter had taken his headshake as a sign that he would not submit to an interrogation. “Forgive me,” he answered as smoothly as he could. “I was responding to a thought of my own. Of course you may ask me.”  
  
“Good,” Potter said, and threw the words like javelins. “Why does it matter to you so much whether I have sex with you or not? Why should I break a promise, no matter how stupid, for _your_ sake?”  
  
Lucius sighed softly. This was the position he had hoped to arrive in, but he had thought it would take at least two more weeks of maneuvering before Potter allowed him to obtain it.   
  
Since this was the evening to take risks, he thought that he would not let this opportunity pass him by.  
  
“I cannot tell you that,” he said. His voice was like softened jade, or he was sure Potter would have interrupted him at that point to laugh triumphantly. As it was, his mouth strained, but he kept silent. “I must show you. Will you permit me to?”  
  
Potter stared at him for a space that seemed as long as the interval between the time when Lucius had asked Narcissa to marry him and when he had received the answer. Then he nodded mutely.  
  
Lucius sat still a moment longer, perhaps to give Potter another chance to back away, perhaps because he still had a mental block against accepting his own plan. He did not know. Never before had he been so uncertain about his movements. But the time came when Potter would _take_ the chance to back away, and that, Lucius could not bear.  
  
He leaned forwards and kissed Potter.  
  
He wanted badly to bring his hands into play, to smooth them along Potter’s jawline and cup the pulse that beat in his throat, to touch that hair in such a way that Potter would move helplessly into the touch, begging, arching his neck, whining under his breath. He could not. His hands remained on his knees, and he concentrated on answering Potter’s question with his lips and tongue alone.  
  
*  
  
Harry had never had a kiss like it, and not just because it was his first kiss with a man.  
  
The tongue that swept along his lips. The eagerness that raged behind the kiss, so Harry knew he was an inch away from being pulled into Malfoy’s arms and devoured. The passion that made one white blaze of Malfoy’s face and his own senses.  
  
The traitorous quiver that passed through him, fired by longing and nervousness and surprise and fear.  
  
Harry tried to argue against that. It was only a _kiss_ , for God’s sake. He’d had plenty of them from Ginny.  
  
But that was it. He’d had plenty of them from Ginny. Because of that, he’d thought he knew what kisses were like. But trying to judge Malfoy’s kisses by hers was as foolish as judging Ginny’s by that long-ago, wet brush of the lips with Cho. They were different people.  
  
There was no comparison.  
  
Harry had laid aside all loyalty to the idea of bodily pleasure long ago, when he had sealed Ginny’s tomb. He had been confident he could do so. After all, it wasn’t passion that made him in love with her. It was so much more than that, and he knew he would never be able to duplicate that experience with anyone else, and that it was ungrateful and stupid to try.  
  
Somehow, he had never managed to envision that an experience unlike that could exist, and yet be as absorbing.  
  
He could tell from that kiss that Malfoy had probably never meant to mean so much. He could see the expanse of the future that half-opened for him, trembling like a panel of fire-colored silk woven by the hands of the artist who called herself the Perilous Spider and always exhibited her works in a mask.  
  
It wasn’t Malfoy’s fault. He had said that he would show Harry why Harry’s refusal to have sex with him mattered, and he had.   
  
It was _his_. He had been overconfident, and now there was nothing he wanted so much in the world as he wanted to break his vow.  
  
And that would be mad and worse than mad. He was deceiving himself with the vision of everything that could be, because no _kiss_ could ever give that much. And his promise of loyalty to Ginny should matter more than the thought of spending a night in someone’s bed.  
  
He broke roughly away from Malfoy and angled sideways out of his chair; he could hardly stand straight up without hitting Malfoy. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried not to laugh at himself, because then the screaming would start. He had to get control of himself—he had to—he had to hold onto it—  
  
“Mr. Potter,” Malfoy said, voice as gentle as a coiling python. Why shouldn’t he be? Harry thought. He’d won. “Have I frightened you?”  
  
“No,” Harry said, and his voice was harsh. But it was a start. He cleared his throat. “I’m the one who made a mistake. I’m sorry.”  
  
“What mistake have you made?” Malfoy had come closer, from the sound of his voice. It bothered Harry that his heart was pounding so hard he had no chance of hearing Malfoy’s footsteps. “Is there something I can do to soothe you?”   
  
Harry moved, because he knew that he would turn around again and try for Malfoy’s lips if that hand fell on his shoulder. Or maybe Malfoy’s throat.  
  
“I thought I could withstand your kiss,” he whispered. “I thought myself more romantic than I actually am.”  
  
The silence seemed to prove Malfoy puzzled. Harry didn’t intend to explain it further. He Summoned his cloak to him with a burst of wandless magic that proved how upset he was, and then walked out the front door of the Manor. Malfoy didn’t come after him, and Harry imagined that was the only reason he escaped with his dignity intact. He wanted too much to see what that mouth and those hands could do to him.  
  
 _I thought I was better than this. I thought I was actually the kind of person who could bury my desire and never feel it again._  
  
It was bitter, to know that he wasn’t and was just as human as anyone else.  
  
 _I was flying at a height, and I fell._  
  
*  
  
Lucius stood where Potter had left him for long enough that Bell popped into the room to see if something was wrong. Lucius waved an absent hand, and the house-elf left again.  
  
“Well,” Lucius said finally. “That was quite interesting.”  
  
He called Bell, then, so that the elf might prepare a hot bath for him and some of the scented oil that would make dealing with the condition Potter’s dazed eyes had left him in more comfortable.


	7. Jaguar

  
_Wary in the approach._  
  
Harry sat on his couch, staring at the fireplace, where the flames had burned down to nothing but shimmering embers. His hands ached from being clenched together. He rubbed the back of his neck, which also ached from the tension, and sighed.   
  
_I don’t know what to do._  
  
That was the simple truth, and no matter how long he sat here looking at the fire, usually a good source of visions, it remained true. In the end, he stood up and wandered along the corridor to his bedroom, where he lay down and shut his eyes. Kreacher had already come to him once that evening to ask if he needed anything, and Harry had sent him away with a glance so forbidding that he knew the little elf wouldn’t soon try again.  
  
Getting undressed and into the cool sheets helped, a little. His mind ceased its maddened whirling and concentrated on one subject. Unfortunately, that subject wasn’t the one Harry _wanted_ it to concentrate on.  
  
He could remember the feel of Malfoy’s lips far better than he should have been able to recall a mere sense memory.  
  
Harry shifted uncomfortably. He had somehow thought that what he needed was distance. Put doors and walls and windows between him and Malfoy, and he would feel human, like himself, again.  
  
That wasn’t what had happened. Instead, the problem had become worse, because he could remember, too, what he had been like—calm and empty, without any yearning or lust in his heart except for odd moments alone—and contrast it with what he was like at the moment.  
  
Too full, of tension and fire and dust.  
  
 _Why can’t I go back to being what I was before_? Harry rolled over and punched the pillow. He couldn’t remember the last time he had made a gesture that stupid and childish, and immediately felt ashamed. But even that was more soothing than the emotions Malfoy had inspired in him, because at least it had a reason. He wasn’t acting with the maturity and control that he expected of himself.  
  
Whereas there was no reason for the passion ( _call it what it is, Harry, face your fears and name them_ ) with which he had responded to Malfoy.  
  
He hadn’t thought of being horrified at having a male lover, because he had never thought there would _be_ a male lover. There had been Ginny, and only Ginny. There was to have been only Ginny as long as he lived.  
  
Now he was more horrified, and felt worse, than he would have if he had simply got drunk and had sex with someone else. That was physical infidelity. This was emotional infidelity.  
  
He wanted to see Malfoy again. He wouldn’t have been surprised to light the lamps and find him here, in the same room, stepping towards him with that glow on his hair that firelight always gave him and a smile that could drown sanity—  
  
Harry shut his eyes. He could feel every eyelash on his cheek. Malfoy had sensitized him, made him aware of his body as a body again.  
  
 _Why? Damn it, why?_  
  
That was the problem. He’d become too used to analyzing his way out of situations. He could defeat the arguments for enslaving house-elves and ignoring the rights of werewolves that the Ministry threw at him. He could see the long-term benefits of supporting certain artists and the short-term benefits of getting angry with them, no matter how obnoxious they were. He could look at a piece of art and explain why he liked it, instead of just shaking his head and standing in silent wonder before its beauty, the way he had during his first year of studying it.  
  
He couldn’t do that with Malfoy. The man was as much pure sensation as a burning flame, and his words could be reasoned with, but his touches could not.  
  
Harry swallowed. The simple solution was not to let Malfoy touch him again, but, given the strength of his yearning, the pull of desire at the back of his throat, he wasn’t sure he could go through with that. He didn’t trust himself anymore.  
  
He rolled on his back and shut his eyes.   
  
He didn’t fall asleep until almost two in the morning. It would have been easier if he’d wanked, but he had already betrayed himself and the person he’d always thought he was enough for one evening.  
  
*  
  
“Mr. Malfoy!”  
  
Lucius turned around, smiling. He had completed his errand in Diagon Alley, finding a gift for Potter that he was certain to appreciate, and so the impertinent advance of reporters did not trouble him as much as it would have a few minutes ago.  
  
“Yes?” he said in the deep voice Narcissa had told him he did so well to the young woman behind him. She had honey-colored hair, honey-colored eyes, and a hungry look about her mouth, as if she’d eaten too much honey and wanted something else for once. “Can I answer a question for you?”  
  
She nodded. “I’m Ariane Roberts, working for the _Quibbler_ , and I just have to ask—” She looked around twice, then leaned close and whispered, although the watching crowd could hear every word. “Did you really kick your son out of your house over your love for Harry Potter?”  
  
“What an interpretation,” Lucius said, gently enough, but in a way that made her flush. “It is true that I freed him, and true that my son had him arrested. What you draw from that must be your own conclusions. I am not a man to freely name my private feelings in public.” He looked around at the watching crowd with disdain that he didn’t try to hide. “Speak with me in private if you wish a different answer.”  
  
He turned around and walked up the middle of Diagon Alley, the metal box in his pocket picking up his body heat and beginning to glow with a promising warmth.  
  
 _The way that Potter’s eyes glowed when I touched him last night._   
  
As long as he lived, Lucius did not think he would forget that moment.  
  
*  
  
Harry walked into the Wizengamot’s courtroom with a hood over his face. The public was allowed to witness the debate, and he was only one of many in the milling crowd with wide eyes and gaping mouths and no fame of their own. He wanted it to stay that way.  
  
 _Hermione should be able to argue. This day should be about the house-elves, not about people distracted by the appearance of Harry Potter._  
  
He leaned against the wall rather than trying to find a seat; he could see at a glance that the best seats were filled, and sitting behind the spectators already there would involve seeing more heads and shoulders than anything else.  
  
From up here, he could see the floor where Hermione would stand, but the figures were small. The problem was easy to solve. Harry cast a Farsight Spell on his eyes, and abruptly he was seeing the floor of the courtroom with as much ease as if he were an eagle.  
  
Harry grimaced when the spell took effect. The Wizengamot really needed to hire some better cleaning staff.  
  
Then he grinned, wondering if house-elves handled the cleaning here, and what Hermione would say about it if that was true. She would probably find a way to work that fact into her argument.  
  
He had chosen a time shortly before the testimony was due to begin, and soon the doors boomed shut. The Wizengamot came creaking and rustling out onto the seats above the courtroom in their long robes. Harry shook his head as he watched them. For the most part, they were older wizards and witches, long detached from the wizarding world as it was, loyal to the traditions of their youth. It was one reason Harry had never really considered approaching them. They wouldn’t be interested in hearing what he wanted, and they certainly wouldn’t be interested in separating from the Ministry.  
  
But a tall man walked among them, younger than most, perhaps about Lucius Malfoy’s age—  
  
Harry grimaced, rolled his eyes, and banished the disobedient thoughts to the back of his mind like children sent to their room.  
  
Anyway. Yes. This man was tall, his bones heavy but his stride steady, his head slightly cocked to one side as if he was always critically, curiously, studying the world around him. His hair fell around his shoulders in a pale blond lion’s mane. Harry’s spell let him see that his small eyes were bright and grey, but he had already known that fact.  
  
This was Osgood Superbus. He wore pure white robes, but his heart was nowhere near that stainless, which was what made him dangerous.  
  
He paused now to whisper something into the ear of a Wizengamot witch that made her smile, and then took his seat in the center of them, looking slightly bored. Harry had seen more than one person fooled by that expression. It was always a mistake. Superbus had an excellent memory and could quote words back at you that you’d spoken an hour ago and ask how they linked up to what you were saying now. A simple technique, but it tended to fluster people who were confident that his sleepy eyes meant he wasn’t really listening.  
  
Hermione wasn’t one of them.   
  
She walked into the center of the courtroom with her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Harry could see that, thanks to the spell, even though her robe’s long sleeves mostly covered her wrists. She turned and bowed to the Wizengamot. The bow had a slight tremble that Harry knew was indignation.  
  
Harry frowned a little. He hoped that Hermione wasn’t going to fly into a rant, the way she sometimes did when speaking to him privately.  
  
But when she stood up and faced the Wizengamot, he relaxed. Her face was like iron, and that was a good sign.  
  
Gradually, the whispering quieted, and Superbus leaned forwards. “Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” he said, “you have chosen to come today as an expert witness to speak about the proposed legislation relating to house-elves.”  
  
“Yes,” Hermione said. The more formal and didactic someone like Superbus got, Harry thought, the shorter and plainer her words would become. It was a good choice. “I have.”  
  
Superbus paused as if he were waiting for her to say something else, but, when she didn’t, gave a bored sigh and waved his hand. “Very well, then. Begin.”  
  
Hermione did, at once, turning to the Wizengamot witch Superbus had spoken to and saying, “Madam Mountfort, do you have house-elves?”  
  
The woman blinked and drew her head back a little, glancing at Superbus as if she was asking whether Hermione had the right to question her. Maybe he made some sign that reassured her, because she looked back and said, “Yes, of course.”  
  
“What do you think would happen if they became free tomorrow?” Hermione asked.  
  
“I would never free them!” said Madam Mountfort, and then turned red as she listened to the way her words echoed in the air. Harry concealed a chuckle. One of Hermione’s specialties since these debates had begun was giving her opponents an opportunity to speak, which they then always regretted.  
  
“I mean,” Madam Mountfort corrected herself hastily, “of course, that I respect the old traditions. And house-elves have a born compulsion to serve. Everyone knows that.”  
  
“Not _every_ single house-elf,” Hermione said. “Most of them, yes. And I have come to accept that those elves are better left where they are.” Harry applauded softly inside his sleeves, knowing how hard that admission had been for her to make, and drew a few puzzled stares from his neighbors. “But even they deserve better treatment than this legislation would leave them open to. And what about the house-elves who desire to be free? Do you deny that they exist, Madam Mountfort?”  
  
“I have met them myself,” said Madam Mountfort in some haughtiness, apparently trying to make up for her mistake, “so I cannot.”  
  
“But you do think that all house-elves should be treated the same,” Hermione responded, putting her left hand on her hip and tilting her head to the side as though she wanted a better view of her opponent, “regardless of their different existences or their different desires for freedom.”  
  
“When one is making legislation, Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” said another Wizengamot member, a heavy man in bright blue robes lined with silver fur whom Harry didn’t know, “one cannot consider every specific case. One must look to the general case and deal with the specifics as they come up. It is perfectly reasonable of us to make a law for house-elves and their owners based on what the majority want.”  
  
Harry hid a laugh as Hermione’s eyes brightened. The man had left her an opening, though Harry didn’t know exactly what kind it was. He could never keep up with Hermione’s mind when she was thinking her way through the midst of a debate like this; it sprang and raced far too fast for him to catch up with.  
  
“Mr. Tertius,” she said, leaning slightly forwards on her heels, “I find that disingenuous given the reason this law is being proposed. After all, if the free house-elves are so small a matter and so small a proportion of the population—as I would admit they are—what is the necessity for creating a law like this in the first place? What possible threat could they be to the traditions of our fine community?” Harry thought he was the only one who knew how much Hermione was choking on the bile of those words.  
  
Mr. Tertius looked uncomfortable, and didn’t respond. Superbus leaned forwards. “You have spoken well, Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” he said, “but we must hear from a representative of the other side now. Lord Duvalle?”  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes for a moment in confusion, but the wizard who walked into the room from a door opposite to the one Hermione had chosen wore French robes. That at least explained the title, Harry thought with a snort he concealed. Some English wizards liked to call themselves “Lord,” but that was an affectation. There were no true aristocrats among them unless they had Muggle titles, and most English wizards gave scant notice to those.  
  
 _There are those who call Lucius Lord Malfoy._  
  
Harry stiffened in irritation, partially because of the track his thoughts were taking and partially because he needed to do something to counteract the weird melting in his middle, as though he’d eaten an Acid Pop.  
  
Lord Duvalle cleared his throat and touched it a few times, as though to suggest that he had some sickness there and couldn’t speak long. He was older than Hermione and himself, Harry thought, but he couldn’t say how much older. He had bright blue eyes and, for some reason, a shaved head, but his beard was long and luxurious enough to make up for that. He took a sheaf of notes from his robes and began to read.  
  
“As the proposed law touches on house-elves, which we all own, and as it touches on the glorious traditions of the wizarding world, which cannot be overthrown without great trouble to all involved, and as it touches on the property that many pure-blood families would like to bequeath to their children, and as it touches on matters of propriety and law that many wizards should consider sacred…”  
  
Harry was beginning to wonder whether the sentence was ever going to end. Hermione had allowed her eyes to glaze and rise to the ceiling. With nothing more than that, and a few minor adjustments to the way that she was standing, she gave an impression of boredom to anyone who looked.  
  
And people were looking. Harry could hear muffled giggles in the audience and among the Wizengamot as Lord Duvalle drowned on and on. Others muffled yawns. The man was losing his audience, and Superbus frowned as though he realized that, too.  
  
But, having invited the man in as an expert witness, he could hardly interrupt or contradict him now. Harry leaned against the wall and amused himself with watching the changes in the Minister’s expression as Lord Duvalle wandered more and more into the tangles of incomprehensible prose.  
  
When he finally lowered his sheaves of paper, there were no questions. Superbus turned back to Hermione. “Do you have anything that you would like to say in response, Granger-Weasley?” he asked.  
  
Hermione had probably made the same judgment Harry had, that she would need literal fireworks to win the audience’s attention back now. She shook her head, and then added, “But this is only the first of several sessions, Minister. You did say that.” She gave him a smile, in that she showed all her teeth and made sure the expression was large.  
  
Superbus gave her a resigned look and nodded. “The next session will be in a week,” he said, “beginning at the same time.”  
  
“Then I shall more to say in the future, but not now,” Hermione said, and bowed, and sailed out of the room while Lord Duvalle was still gathering up his papers.  
  
Harry grinned as he followed her. She was the heroine of the hour. Not only had she made the briefer and more concise argument that more people would remember, she had made the Wizengamot members look like fools and appeared to release everyone in the room from the tedium of being there.  
  
Harry wanted to find her and tell her how much he admired her performance, but he didn’t see her when he looked quickly around the crowded antechambers. He started fighting his way towards the stairs.  
  
An owl, a beautiful silver bird with black points to its feathers, winged over and circled around his head. Harry stopped and stared up at it. This wasn’t the Minister’s bird. It was far more magnificent. It felt as though he was being introduced to the crowd by an angel.  
  
And it marked him out something horrible. Harry grimaced and walked faster. He could still feel the eyes of the crowd following him, but at least they didn’t know _for certain_ who he was.   
  
_Damn it, Lucius_ , he thought, talking to Malfoy in his head because speaking to him aloud would have made everyone look at him even _more_ strangely. _This isn’t supposed to be about me, or even about art. You have terrible timing._  
  
He could picture the way Lucius’s eyes would flash in response to that accusation, how he would smile, how he would tilt his head and say—  
  
 _It’s getting hopeless when I can hear what he would say_ , Harry thought, and lengthened his stride until he was almost running. The owl kept pace with him all the way. Harry gritted his teeth and tried not to think of how ridiculous he must look, being pursued by a bird. It hardly mattered as long as no one could see his face.  
  
He leaped the last few stairs and landed in a corridor of the Ministry that turned aside from the main route most people were taking out of the courtroom. Then he snarled and lifted an impatient hand for the owl’s message.  
  
The owl alighted delicately on his arm. Harry blinked, some of his anger fleeing because of the sheer strangeness of that. He had never encountered an owl who seemed to worry about hurting people.  
  
The owl shifted nearer and looked at him expectantly. Harry rolled his eyes and took the letter in hand, breaking the seal with an impatient tear. The owl ruffled its feathers as if offended, but didn’t peck him or fly away.   
  
Harry turned his back to the mouth of the corridor, partially so he could get better light and partially so that no one could come up and try to read the letter over his shoulder.  
  
 _My jeweled one—  
  
I have small hopes of being able to coax you back to my house any time soon. I saw you face a revelation that you were ill-prepared for there the other night. I know that I prefer to avoid the places where such epiphanies have happened. For example, there is a certain Hogwarts corridor where a boy forced me to free one of my house-elves that has never felt the touch of my shadow again. _  
  
Harry blinked and stared. Then he realized he was smiling in spite of himself, as if he thought that Lucius’s reference to the past was somehow _charming_ , and made the smile vanish as he read on.  
  
 _I must do something, however. I understand that you blame yourself and not me for your surrender, and your disappointment in the failure of your high ideals. What you do not understand is that such a failure is both natural and necessary. I have sent you a small gift that might help you to begin your climb to understanding._  
  
“What? Your letter?” Harry muttered. “Excuse me, Lucius, but I hardly think that your words are going to make any difference.”  
  
A moment later, he hunched his shoulders against a memory that shamed him. Lucius’s words had already made one difference, hadn’t they? Harry had given in to his own curiosity when Lucius said that he had something to show him. If he hadn’t, then what happened would never have happened.  
  
Then Harry shut his eyes and forced himself to face the truth, as he’d had to do often since the night Ginny died.  
  
 _No, I was stupid and trying to live up to a vow I had made but didn’t have the strength to really fulfill. It would have cracked and I would have had to see myself in a bad light sooner or later. I shouldn’t have made the vow in the first place if I couldn’t be loyal to it._  
  
He sighed and stood there, thinking. He might have stood there some minutes more if the owl hadn’t given his cheek a rough nudge. Harry flinched and turned his head. He had almost forgotten it was there, and he had no desire to have his cheek ripped open or his shoulder scratched.  
  
But the owl held out its leg with a solemn grace the moment Harry looked at it, and then Harry noticed the box that still dangled from one of its talons. It was small, a deep green in color, and looked as if it held nothing but air.  
  
There would be something in there. Harry was certain. His bloody curiosity made him take the box and open it.  
  
Inside was a cloud of white fluff that he pushed aside, a scrap of parchment that he took out and curled into the center of his palm…and a ring.  
  
Harry would have rolled his eyes when he saw it, if he could have. It was silver, set with an emerald. Of course a Malfoy would choose Slytherin colors. The only surprise was that Harry should be surprised.  
  
But he couldn’t roll his eyes, because the ring was too beautiful. The band was a simple, braided thing, the metal twisted and interwoven in curls that looked organic, as if it had grown rather than been wrought. It wasn’t heavy, though, or so ostentatious that it would draw the eye. The emerald had a cabochon cut and soft letters glimmered beneath the surface when Harry turned the ring.  
  
He looked at it for long moments before he turned to the parchment that had come with the gift. As he had suspected, it was a note, in Lucius’s handwriting, that told him what the ring was supposed to do.  
  
 _This is called an Oculus Verus, or, in vulgar English, a Ring of True Sight. Wear it when you have a conversation with me, and it will allow you to see the way I perceive you._  
  
That was all. No more than that.  
  
And nothing less.  
  
Harry turned the ring over and stared at it. Of course it wasn’t ugly. Lucius would never have chosen an ugly gift, or a vulgar one.  
  
 _And I’m calling him Lucius as though we really were settled lovers, or at least friends._  
  
Harry shut his eyes. He was going to draw attention, he thought. Someone would come through this corridor looking for a less crowded exit from the Ministry, and they would find him, and they would be curious—especially if they looked into his face and noticed his scar. He had to move.  
  
When he started to, though, the owl flexed its claws and dug gently into his shoulder, as though reminding him of its presence.  
  
“No answer,” Harry said, and shrugged so the bird had to take off, ignoring its disapproving stare. He started towards the entrance once again, keeping his fingers clasped firmly around the ring. He had tucked the box into one of his pockets. He would have left it behind, so conflicted were his feelings about it at the moment, but someone might have been able to trace his magical signature or Malfoy’s from it.  
  
The gift was beautiful. There was no denying that. And Harry had some idea of the magnitude of the gesture it represented.  
  
But that was the problem. He owed Lucius one debt already, and here was another. It seemed that he didn’t get to choose anything that Lucius handed him. He was supposed to sit around waiting passively for Lucius to ask him to go to bed, and to be kissed, and to be given gifts that it would be churlish and stupid to refuse.  
  
 _I don’t want to. I need more than that._  
  
Harry wouldn’t throw away the ring, of course. It must have cost Lucius quite a bit of money. But he would keep it and tuck it away, and the next time they met—which would probably be at Giles’s exhibition next week—Harry would not be wearing it.   
  
It might travel with him, of course. Harry hadn’t yet decided if he wanted to give it back to Lucius or not, and if he did, whether that would be in public or in private. Probably private, he decided. He wished to refuse Lucius, not humiliate him.  
  
 _And you’re calling him by his first name again._  
  
Harry tightened his mouth and hurried on his way, but the thoughts followed him. And when he got home, he would have to confront them, because he would be acting like a child if he did not.  
  
*  
  
Lucius stepped into the room that Giles Burne-Jones had rented for the exhibition of his paintings, and smiled. This was more intimate. The great halls and the anonymous buildings that might host an exhibition one night and a winged horse race the next were all very well in their way, but vulgarity often curled along their walls like an invisible mist.  
  
 _More intimate means more intimacy._  
  
Lucius moved into the center of the room, turning his head back and forth slowly. Most of the paintings on display were ones that Burne-Jones had exhibited before. Lucius could rejoice in their colors and the level of skill shown in them, but without much admiration. That, only two things could give him: the shock of the new, or more talent than Burne-Jones possessed.  
  
 _Or Potter._  
  
Lucius sighed as a shiver ran up his spine. He could make himself come by lying in the middle of his bed, closing his eyes, and recalling with skin and flesh memory every touch of Potter’s lips.  
  
The memories burned as bright as flames, but they were not like touching fire. Lucius hoped that Potter was here tonight.  
  
He stopped before the center display, and nodded. Yes, this was the best of Burne-Jones’s work, and he had been wise to place it here, so that his audience would have to pass through the ranks of his inferior paintings to see it, and be startled by the growth of his skill.  
  
The painting was in the shape of an arch, an affectation that Lucius could accept because of the scene it pictured. The scene was a window at the top of a door, the panels at the side of which looked out over normal scenes of spring. The arched window, on the other hand, led into a lovely garden that had come straight from the country of summer. Lucius could see the softened shapes of trees, the tangle of sunset colors reflected in waters and grasses although no trace of it appeared in the sky, the bowing heads that might be black stags coming down to drink or strange, slow darknesses descending. Clouds overhead formed the shape of a starry eagle. This was the best work Burne-Jones had ever done, Lucius judged. Perhaps he had a new lover in his life, for the painting shone with passion.  
  
“Fancy finding you here.”  
  
Lucius turned. His head felt light; he was moving lightly on his feet, too, as though he had the stars in the eagle’s wings beneath his toes. His tongue felt too heavy for his mouth, which was why he nodded instead of replying. This was a unique occasion, though Potter might not realize it. This was the first time Potter had ever approached him first. Lucius had initiated the hunt, and had assumed without thinking that he would have to carry it through each of its several stages.  
  
Potter came towards him with a sleek, rolling walk that made Lucius think of jaguars. Yes, jaguars had eyes like that, and jaguars had jaws strong enough to crack skulls open, and Potter’s jaws were parted around words that Lucius knew he must have designed to hurt.  
  
“Listen to me,” Potter said. “I received the gift you sent me. You didn’t have to send it.” He kept his voice to a low hiss. Lucius, looking about, found no other observers near them at the moment, and approved Potter’s sense—and good fortune—to find an island of isolation in a scene of publicity.  
  
“I know that,” he said simply. “But I wished to. I wish to see you shining and adorned.”  
  
Potter’s lip curled back. “With rings?”  
  
“Rings are a start,” Lucius said, capturing that green gaze and holding it, so that Potter would remember the kiss as vividly as he would, “since self-confidence and self-admiration take longer to grow.”  
  
Potter shut his eyes for a moment. Lucius watched him, weaker than he wanted to admit, more enthralled. The thoughts behind Potter’s eyes had to remain secret even from him, it seemed, but Lucius could _feel_ them. It was like watching the light flashing off a coin without being able to know for certain where the coin was going to land.  
  
Lucius frowned when he felt that thought. _I thought I would be able to read Potter better than this. He expressed himself clearly enough the other night that—_  
  
Then Potter leaned forwards and opened his eyes.  
  
Lucius found it physically painful to swallow. If Potter’s emotions were tumbling coins, they had settled, and on a side that was not favorable for him.  
  
“I can appreciate your _intentions_ ,” Potter said, “but the way you express them makes it impossible for me to accept your gifts. Here.” He took the small box out of his pocket and held it towards Lucius. Lucius knew without asking that the Ring of True Sight was inside it.  
  
That was disappointing, more disappointing than Lucius had wanted to admit. This hunt had so far gone well, even when he took risks that he should be whipped for taking. So he held Potter’s gaze and asked, “Would you have accepted this gift from someone else?”  
  
“No one else would have dared to give it to me,” Potter countered, with a glare that scorched Lucius’s hopes.  
  
Lucius hesitated. He was having to take risks again, but this time in public and without the ability to retreat gracefully and at once if Potter did not respond the way he longed for. He hated the trembling feeling that had invaded his skin.  
  
Not that his hands shook, or his legs felt too weak to hold him. This was a subtler shiver, as though he had taken a step along a bridge and it had vanished ahead of him.  
  
And Potter watched him as if waiting for him to fall.  
  
Lucius took the risk, and he took it in pride, because that was the only choice left to him. “I will not take it back,” he said. “Keep it, or sell it, or cast it away in the street. It is yours. It is up to you what you do with it—much as someone who buys a portrait might burn it or hang it up in his front rooms for all to see.”  
  
Potter watched him again. The silence he carried with him had shifted, his eyes gone opaque. “Why did you give it to me?”  
  
“So that you could know what I was thinking when I looked at you the way I am now,” Lucius said. He ducked his head in an irresistible impulse; he had to protect his throat. _Not that Potter needs blades to cut me_. “I had thought you uneasy because you could not fully trust me. This was a means to eliminate that uneasiness.”  
  
“I don’t want it,” Potter said, and his voice rang. “Do you hear me, Lucius? The friends I made, the people I care for, I can trust them because I had to learn how. This is _cheating_.” He bounced the ring box up and down in his palm. “Something like this should never be cheated on, but developed at full length.”  
  
Lucius stood still. At this point, he had no idea what was coming next. Perhaps a disquisition on his dead Weasley.  
  
Potter took a step forwards, his face pointed, his eyes afire, his voice once more soft so that the other people wandering into the middle of the exhibit to look at Burne-Jones’s paintings couldn’t hear. “I can’t forget about what you did to me the other night.”  
  
Lucius silently noted that Potter had chosen to reframe the kiss as something Lucius had inflicted on him rather than something they had shared, but that was a small thing in the face of his admission. “Can you not?” he breathed. His hand twitched, but he held it at his side. _Much too daring to touch him right now._  
  
“No.” Potter leaned closer still. It was the nearest he had ever come. Lucius savored the way the hairs on his arms stood up and the way his hand twitched, again, with the wish to caress Potter. “And I should be able to, shouldn’t I? If it was really minor, if I’m the hero that I always thought I was.”  
  
Rising anger had the ability to slice even the silken web of desire Potter had flung around him. Lucius stepped back. “If you mean to accuse me of enchanting you—”  
  
“No, of course not.” Potter sounded honestly shocked. “I don’t think you would cheat that way. Despite _this_.” He bounced the ring box again.  
  
Lucius relaxed slowly, but held his body stiff against the temptation to trust so soon. “Then I don’t understand what you do me the honor of telling me.” If Potter could not cut through formality like that, then he didn’t deserve to be in the same room as Lucius.  
  
“It’s something inside _me_ ,” Potter said. “I had to think about it. Which doesn’t mean that I’m not still angry about the ring, by the way,” he added inconsequentially. “I realized I was thinking about the kiss all the time, and calling you by your first name in my head, and that I felt less guilty about Ginny than I should have. And it made me decide something. Well, not for certain. But almost decide something. At least decide to start something. At least make a resolve.”  
  
Lucius was glad that Potter’s particular form of beauty did not depend solely on his voice. Or perhaps he would have found even inarticulateness charming. At the moment, though, he desperately wanted to know what Potter had resolved on. “And?” he whispered.  
  
Potter’s eyes moved across his face like the touch of a unicorn’s mane. “If it’s something in me,” he said, “then it _exists_. It won’t go away. I was never the heroic knight I thought I was, living faithfully for Ginny’s memory, not if you could charm me so easily. Which means that I was flawed. But also that I’m something else. Someone who was aroused by you, of all things.” He flushed. “Someone I want to know better.”  
  
Lucius did not dare to breathe. He had thought that a confirmation like this, when it came—and he had never truly feared that it would never come—would make him feel as if he were walking on a mountaintop with the Northern Lights playing around him. Instead, he felt as if a starry abyss had opened beneath his feet.  
  
It was beautiful, but he was still falling.  
  
“I cannot redeem you,” he said, the first words that came to his lips. “I cannot clarify yourself for you and do nothing else. I will not be used like that. I am a fiercer and more possessive lover than that.”   
  
Potter looked at him and blinked. “I know,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. I want more than that. If I didn’t, if it was just loneliness, then I wouldn’t keep thinking of your name. And your kiss—” He flushed miserably and lowered his eyes, and Lucius was glad to see that Potter was as off-balance as he was. It didn’t last long, though, because Potter’s eyes rose and once more pierced through him with that jaguar-like intensity.   
  
“I want more than that,” Potter said firmly. “Maybe anyone who kissed me could have awoken me from my vow, but I don’t think so. It was you who did, and you’re the one I want.” He stepped forwards intently, hands extended as if he could draw truth from Lucius simply by touching him.  
  
Lucius longed to know what that touch would feel like. Not just Potter’s touch, but that particular touch, trembling in the first moments of its being born.  
  
He never did.  
  
Something heavy struck him from the side, something heavy and hot that made pain blossom where it touched. Lucius grunted and fell, his mind still thinking about the sensation even though his body was hurting. It was like being struck with a flare of burning mud, which clung and settled and seemed to grow heavier every moment.  
  
Potter crouched down over him, and did something with his wand that made the burning along Lucius’s side die into marvelous coolness. He put a hand on Lucius’s cheek, and Lucius could feel it. He was glad of that. He had thought for a moment that the splash had destroyed his nerves. “The attack came from the side,” Potter said, voice clear and ringing above the screams that had started to surround them. “I think—yes, it is. Your son.”  
  
Lucius turned his head, dragging one cheek painfully across the floor. Draco was walking towards them from between the paintings that surrounded them, his face pale, his eyes feverish, but his expression determined. Lucius had seen that expression shortly before Narcissa entered the Potions lab for the experiment that had killed her.  
  
And Draco was his mother’s son.  
  
“No,” Potter said gently, though Lucius hadn’t heard Draco threaten him. Perhaps Potter was speaking simply on principles of general defiance, Lucius thought. He defied Ministers and accepted ideas about art and the longings of the body; why shouldn’t he defy someone who had decided to kill Lucius? He stepped in front of Lucius and stood there with his legs locked, making a human shield of himself. “I don’t know why you hit him instead of me, but I’m still not going to let you hurt him.”  
  
“This is the way it’s always been,” Draco said. His voice, which Lucius had last heard sound like a cracked bell, was whole and firm now. “The Malfoy heir destroys the head of the house and takes over when that head begins to act unworthy of the family it captains.”  
  
Lucius would have nodded if he could. Draco had learned _some_ of his lessons well, then. The problem was that Lucius didn’t think he’d done anything that was unworthy of the head of the family.  
  
But, of course, that would be no problem if Draco succeeded in destroying him. The successful heir was the one who wrote the history, and everyone in a hundred years would believe that his assassination had been right and necessary, his courtship of Potter a crime.  
  
If it succeeded. And Lucius felt a terrible sadness for his son, because he didn’t think that it would succeed, and Draco should have known the things that might stand in his plan’s way and made sure they were taken care of before he struck.  
  
“No,” Potter said again, and his voice was more remote this time. “Maybe it works that way for Malfoys. But I’m not a Malfoy.”  
  
He lifted his wand. Lucius could see that much from this angle. He didn’t see the words Potter’s lips formed, but he saw Draco’s face assume an expression of absolute terror for a moment. Then the air turned silver in front of him and fanned out around him like mist.  
  
The mist vanished. Draco was gone with it.  
  
Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Did you banish him from existence?” he asked. “Some of the ancient wizards did that, but they stopped when they realized that it caused the most absurd problems with time.”  
  
Potter turned around and crouched down next to him, shaking his head. Lucius could hear pounding footsteps now. _With Draco gone, they’ve overcome their terror and called the Aurors in_ , he thought. _Of course it only takes the removal of evil for them to find their courage_. “No. I sent him somewhere else, a place that I keep things I want to hold absolutely motionless. He’ll come back when we need him to, none the worse for wear.”  
  
Lucius laughed. He was light-headed, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or the shock or the fact he’d just realized. “Your name will be linked with mine in all the articles about this,” he said. “As my defender. As—they will say this—my lover.”  
  
“They’ll say that,” Potter agreed, with a slow, curious lilt in his voice, like someone struggling to swallow honey. “I’m sure they will.”  
  
Lucius laid his head back on the floor and laughed again. “Acknowledgment does not tell me how you feel about that.”  
  
“If I could have foreseen everything,” Potter answered, tugging his cloak around himself as he turned to face the first of the questioners, “I would still have done the same thing.” A beat, and he added, “You should probably rest, you know.”  
  
“I don’t want to,” Lucius answered. “I’d miss the fun.”  
  
Potter shook his head and then looked at the advancing Aurors. His back was straight, the tilt of his head sharp enough that Lucius would have liked to get on his feet and stand beside him. He could guess what the Aurors would say to Potter, someone who had already been arrested once in the past month and who had “disciplined” one of their number as well.  
  
But he could not find the strength to rise, which told him more about the spell Draco had hit him with than anything else did. So he remained still, cheek pressed to the floor, and watched Potter stand there unconcerned as the Aurors fanned out. Even now, he was protecting Lucius.  
  
 _I will stand beside you someday_ , Lucius thought to him. _I will comfort you, and guard you, and return the favor in full measure._  
  
For now, he conserved the strength in his muscles and watched for the moment he could add the power of his voice, should it be needed.  
  
*  
  
Harry felt his heartbeat slow when he saw the Auror who walked in front of the others. Ron stopped when he saw Harry and let his eyes slip past Harry to Lucius, resting on the body, then looked back.  
  
“I’m not even going to ask,” Ron said. “Or at least, I wouldn’t, except that the Ministry would have my hide if I came back without a full report.” He sighed and touched his temple as though he already had a headache coming on. “So. What happened?”  
  
“You saw the articles, I’m certain, and heard the news about what happened when Draco Malfoy tried to have me arrested, and Lucius freed me.” Ron gave him a funny look, probably because Harry hadn’t spoken Lucius’s last name, but nodded. “He attacked again, here,” Harry said. “He used some kind of spell that looked like burning mud on Lucius. I stepped up and used the Crystal Banishment. He’s perfectly safe, of course, and I can pull him out if the Ministry needs him. But that’s all that happened.”  
  
Ron gave him an abjectly grateful look. Harry smiled sympathetically back. He knew it was hard on Ron sometimes, being in the Auror Department, when the reports of Harry’s exploits came trickling back into the Ministry. This was the kind of situation Ron liked: simple and easily handled.  
  
“Well?” Ron turned to the five others who had come with him, and Harry marveled at the change in his demeanor. Ron still sometimes deferred to Harry, even though it had been so long since he was the leader of anything, but he was perfectly at home commanding Aurors. “Does anyone question his word?”  
  
“No, sir,” the youngest Auror present, a square-jawed woman with long red hair, said. She’d been casting spells on the surrounding area, and she looked back at Ron. “Everything seems to have happened as he said, sir. Arachne’s Lash, and then the Crystal Banishment.”  
  
Harry decided he would remember the name Arachne’s Lash, even as the other Aurors nodded and Ron transferred his attention back to Harry. “You should probably let us have Malfoy, mate. The younger one, I mean,” he added, with another sidelong glance at Lucius.  
  
Harry nodded and reversed the Banishment. Malfoy stumbled as he came out of it, and Ron Stunned him without waiting for questions or haughty demands for consideration. He slung Malfoy over one shoulder and looked long and deeply into Harry’s eyes. So softly that Harry saw more than heard the words, he whispered, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”  
  
Harry looked contemplatively back, and didn’t respond. Ron shook his head and marched out of the exhibit with the Aurors behind him.  
  
After that came a blur of apologies and handshakes and quiet but firm words that fended off the people who wanted to crowd around and see what had injured Lucius Malfoy. Harry helped Lucius back to his feet, and he leaned heavily on Harry’s shoulder, acting more hurt than he probably was. The spell had looked like a spreading purple cloud of destruction, but it seemed to have mostly ripped his robes and left a few shallow wounds on his side. Harry touched his robe collar in gratitude.  
  
Lucius moved so that Harry’s touch fell on the back of his neck, on bare skin, instead, and looked calmly at him.   
  
Harry took a deep breath. But he had come this far, and he had made a decision. It was ridiculous to pretend that his constantly thinking of Lucius by his first name and never being able to forget their kiss meant nothing. Harry was too old to play those kinds of games with himself.  
  
 _And Lucius is even older._  
  
That was only one of the many problems that could destroy this, Harry thought. But trying to ignore it didn’t make any of those problems go away, so he simply nodded to Lucius and said, “To St. Mungo’s? And then your house?”  
  
“Yes.” Lucius’s voice was rich and deep despite the wounds he’d taken. He curled his fingers into Harry’s robe collar in return.  
  
His hand lingered only a moment, but Harry knew full well what its heavy possessiveness meant.  
  
He tried not to shiver as he helped Lucius out of the room, but thought more about how Lucius was graceful even when he was limping.


	8. Killer Whale

_Swallowing the prey whole._  
  
The Healers stared as Harry helped Lucius into the building. Then someone came forwards to ask what ought to be done, and Harry started answering the first of a long round of questions.  
  
There were stares all the time, of course. Harry had managed to reconcile himself to the necessity of that. After all, he and Lucius were both notorious, and the papers had been full of news of them lately, since he had been arrested and Lucius had freed him. They would be objects of curiosity.  
  
 _Are you ready for that? The papers would be interested no matter what lover you finally took, but someone who fought against you in the war, someone infamous in his own right, someone who’s already made certain extravagant gestures that people have linked to you…_  
  
Harry dismissed the thought. He wasn’t _ready_ for it, in that he hadn’t thought every possible permutation of what could happen through with care, but he was willing to accept and endure it. Maybe, after six months of trying, he wouldn’t be. But he honestly didn’t think he could predict that far in advance.  
  
 _Funny_ , he thought, as he watched the Healers run their wands over Lucius’s wounds and admit that they couldn’t much better the spells Harry had already used to calm the pain of the Arachne’s Lash. _A week ago, I would have thought I could. I’d already predicted that I would never take another lover in my life and would never respond to Lucius’s advances._  
  
He faced the future with a deeper calm than he had thought he would have, now that it was all torn to pieces. He would try, and he would be an adult about it, the adult he had learned to think himself since Hogwarts and especially since Ginny died. He would not whinge and throw a temper tantrum, as tempting as that might be.  
  
Lucius looked up at him once the Healers had finished healing the wounds and had given him a cooling potion which he was to smear on his wounds twice a day for the next fortnight. His eyes had gone back to the burning pools of light Harry had seen during the kiss and when he first walked up to greet Lucius at the exhibition.  
  
“Shall we go home?” he murmured.  
  
Harry nodded, put out one hand, and helped Lucius to his feet.  
  
*  
  
“Bell is hearing all about Master Draco,” Bell said, appearing to greet them the moment the door shut behind them. “Bell is so sorry, Master Lucius. Bell is helping to raise Master Draco from a child, and is never seeing any signs of insanity in him before.” Bell shook his head slowly and solemnly, and then gave his ears a single efficient yank before he stared at Lucius, awaiting an order.  
  
Lucius smiled. He liked it when house-elves got their punishment out of the way all at once, and Bell had obviously picked up on that preference. “I do not wish to discuss my son at the moment,” he said. “Please prepare a room for Mister Potter, but light a fire in the smallest sitting room first, and bring us drinks there.”  
  
“Bell is doing that _immediately_ , Master Lucius,” Bell said, with a bob of his head that seemed to suggest it would only be immediately because there was no faster word, and then vanished.  
  
“Do house-elves make you uncomfortable?” Lucius asked, turning to Potter. Potter stood beside him with his arms folded and his head bowed slightly, staring at the floor. Lucius asked the question partially because he wanted to know the answer, but more to make those brilliant eyes lift and return to his face. Lucius liked it better when they were looking at him.  
  
“No,” Potter said slowly. “I have one of my own. Kreacher. He used to serve the Black family.”  
  
Lucius had forgotten that little circumstance. He chuckled and moved in the direction of the smallest sitting room. Potter drifted beside him, looking as if he didn’t know whether Lucius wanted the support of a hand under his arm or not.  
  
 _This is hard for you, isn’t it_? Lucius thought as he watched the younger man. _You excel in the immediate rush of a situation, when you can make courageous decisions or defend someone, but the aftermath of the decision is more difficult._  
  
It would be so always, and Lucius was not minded to take away much of Potter’s discomfort. He wanted some control back, some balance. For now, keeping Potter off-guard appeared to be the best way to achieve it.  
  
The smallest sitting room had white walls with a pattern of blue flowers, blooming slowly on the pale carpet and up the walls from the baseboards. They would have looked grotesque or childish, but whoever had fashioned them had great skill, and Lucius felt calmed and refreshed when he spent time in this room. He was relieved to see the same thing seemed to happen to Potter, because he dropped into a chair with a small sigh and appeared to count the petals of one of the flowers several times.  
  
Bell had left a tray with the same pale wine they’d shared the last time Potter had been here. Lucius picked up a glass and left Potter to take the next. Potter did, and sipped several times—at least they were small sips—before looking at him.  
  
“Where does this begin?” Potter asked quietly, nervously touching his hair. “What happens next?”  
  
Lucius muffled a snort. “I was about to ask the same thing. You seemed so decisive so far, I was hoping you could tell me.”  
  
“I didn’t—” Potter stopped himself, probably because the rising tone of his voice indicated he was about to say something unfair. Instead, he cleared his throat and looked away, once more depriving Lucius of the sight of those magnificent eyes. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I want to try, but I didn’t think Draco would attack like that. That creates—a deeper bond.”  
  
“Between us, or between me and him?” Lucius sipped with less delicacy than normal. He felt the need of something to cool and soothe his throat at the same time. “I hope I may be excused for thinking that it would forge no sort of bond between you and him.”  
  
Potter’s smile was rushed and didn’t touch his eyes. “No. What I meant was that I saved your life. It was something I’d do again,” he added, as though he thought Lucius could honestly mistake his meaning. “But, just like when you freed me, that creates a bond. A debt. It confuses things. I didn’t want this—” He circled his hand between them, evidently not knowing how to refer to what they might share. “To be _obligated_ by anything. But now it is, and I don’t know what to do.”  
  
He finished the words with a little sigh, and a glance at Lucius that seemed to expect him to find a way out of the difficulty. Lucius knew he would find that hard, because to him it was not a difficulty. He was glad to be alive, and he was grateful to Draco, slightly, for doing something that helped him along the difficult path to winning Potter’s regard. Because of many other complicating factors, of course, his gratitude was not sufficient to extend to getting Draco out of the clutches of the Aurors.  
  
“We continue forwards,” he said. “At a pace you find comfortable, and with deviations to the side as needed. Did you want to back away from me?”  
  
That won him a surprisingly outraged glare and a combative turn of Potter’s head. “I’m not going to back away,” he said. “Never from anything that you could do, and never from any emotion you can inspire.”  
  
Lucius smiled. “Good,” he said. “I am amenable to continuing things immediately. What do you say?” He held out a hand in the air between them, and saw Potter’s eyes fasten on it as if it were the claw of an owl and he a mouse.  
  
“Wait,” Potter said, still looking fixedly at his hand. “There _are_ some things we should address. I mean, what if Draco hates me? Doesn’t that matter to you, that your son doesn’t want me around? He’s still your son. And there are reasons that I don’t want to jump into bed with you right away.” He licked his lips.  
  
Lucius dropped his hand to his knee and took another sip of wine. “I thought to find the limits of your courage,” he said. “They are not very far away.”  
  
Potter’s eyes heated, and he looked as he had when they stood in the exhibition of Burne-Jones’s paintings again. “You did that on purpose,” he said.  
  
“Yes,” Lucius agreed.  
  
“You _enjoyed_ that.”  
  
“Yes,” Lucius said again.  
  
Potter glared at him. “Just because I don’t want to go to bed with you right away doesn’t make me a coward.”  
  
“No,” Lucius said, glad for the chance to use a different monosyllable. Potter’s words sent a sensation of delicious heat and friction sliding down to the base of his spine that he would remember and use in his wanking material later that night. “But you did say that you would back away from nothing I could propose. I naturally had to see if that was true.”  
  
Potter huffed and scratched his chin as though he were trying to get rid of the scrim of beard Lucius could see pouring over his skin. “Doesn’t it _bother_ you that your son just tried to kill you?” he asked. “It does me.”  
  
“Because he tried to kill me, or because he’s my son?” The abyss Lucius had thought he was falling into earlier that evening had closed. He settled back in the chair and watched the way the firelight flashed off the lobe of Potter’s ear. He didn’t wear jewelry. Lucius could not decide if that was a pity or if he looked better unadorned. Either way had its beauty.  
  
“ _Both_ , actually,” Potter said, looking as though being made to choose between the two alternatives was an incredible hardship. Lucius could not help him there; Potter had been the one to present the options, so he should decide on which one was more disturbing. “I want to get along with your family, and since Draco is the only one left, that makes it even more important. But I don’t want you to die.”   
  
He said that with a half-guilty, half-defiant sideways look, as if he imagined that Lucius was slavering for his bloodthirstiness. Lucius smiled to reward it, and watched the way Potter’s cheeks flushed before he answered. “Thank you for that. But the fact is, Draco was acting in accord with the rules I taught him. Malfoys have killed Malfoys before, in cases when they could not wait for the natural death of their parents or when they believed that their parents were behaving disgracefully. Either or both might have been Draco’s motivation.”  
  
“Was he always this—impatient?”  
  
Potter was floundering as he tried to walk on this new ground, and use terms that were obviously completely unfamiliar to him. Lucius took pity on him and shook his head. “No. I believe a large part of this is my own fault. I kept him on a short leash, but not short enough. I gave him too much of pleasure and not enough of duty, believing he would be contented that way and not seek to assassinate me because to do so would imperil his comfortable life. I see now that he believes himself a pampered pet and wants his freedom back.”   
  
“So—you think this is your fault?” Potter was regarding him with a skeptical expression Lucius would have found flattering, except that he believed it indicated Potter’s incredulity that he could ever feel at fault rather than Potter’s disbelief that he was at fault in this particular situation.  
  
“Yes,” Lucius said. “And I will have to do something for Draco. But that something will never be giving you up.”  
  
Potter sounded as if he stopped breathing, which would be interesting if true. But Lucius did not think it was. Potter swallowed in the next moment, after all, and looked at the floor as he said, “But what if there isn’t a way for him and I to reconcile?”  
  
“Then the thing I do for him will not involve you,” Lucius said.  
  
Potter half-shut his eyes and took another sip of wine. “Do you think it would help if he had a time limit?” he asked.  
  
Lucius considered the view of Potter in profile and wondered what it would look like carved in marble. Or perhaps marble would be the wrong stone to capture him. Not fluid enough, not lively enough. Lucius could appreciate something better that would flow with dazzling swiftness and _gleam_. It was too bad that there was no way to make statues out of quicksilver. “That is an innovative idea,” he said. “A time limit telling Draco how long he has to accept our relationship? It would provide an ultimatum.”  
  
Potter gave him an oddly-shaped look. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he said. “I wondered if we could tell him how long this might last, so he could stay out of the country for a few months or something like that, and then come back when I was gone.”  
  
Lucius sat still, because it was the best way to control any unfortunate reaction he might have had. At last he asked, in a whisper that he did not try to make less dangerous, because Potter deserved all the danger he could muster, “And do you plan to leave me so soon?”  
  
“I don’t _plan_ to leave you,” Potter said, and there was a heavy green weariness in his voice that made Lucius listen to him. “This is so strange that I won’t presume to make plans about it. What matters is that I have no idea how this will work out or what will happen.”  
  
“In that case, you cannot give Draco a deadline,” Lucius said, and learned to breathe again. “Because you do not know if you will be tired of me by the time it comes, or wish to leave me.”  
  
Potter shook his head, but glanced up and said, “You’re right. I was hoping that you would put some kind of limit on it so the decision to end this relationship, or let it endure, or whatever’s going to happen, wouldn’t be mine.”  
  
“That honesty could be dangerous,” Lucius murmured, imagining Potter plunging it like a sword into his heart.  
  
“I know.” Potter touched his forehead and ran a finger down the line of his scar. “And so could the difference in age between us, and our pasts, and the reaction my friends are going to have to this, to say nothing of Draco’s further reactions.” He lifted his head, and there was a quiet challenge in his eyes. “Not to mention,” he added, “what will happen when you finally decide that beauty isn’t a good enough reason to lust after me.”  
  
Lucius said nothing for some time. He knew Potter was waiting, and he was content to let him wait, since the motives he had for speaking like this in the first place were hardly complimentary.   
  
Besides, he wanted to finish his wine.  
  
When he had set the glass aside and faced Potter with sweetness tingling through him, he said, “I play the games of the mind because I enjoy them. I analyze situations. I anticipate consequences. I take risks and then dance lightly out of the way of their repercussions, because I would not wish to be crushed.”  
  
Potter nodded, his eyes puzzled, wary. They were beautiful even like that, but the knowledge was no surprise to Lucius. He could no longer remember a time when he had not been a willing victim of Potter’s enchantment.  
  
“But at times,” Lucius said, “I prefer to let the games of the mind play themselves out on another level, while I experience—and enjoy—what the fates have given me.”  
  
He reached up with both hands to undo the braid that tied his hair. He could have accomplished it with a single gesture, a single flick of his wand. But that would have undermined the point he wanted to make, the slowness of the moment.  
  
Potter _did_ stop breathing as he watched. Lucius unwound the braid one loop at a time, and laid aside the dark grey ribbon he had chosen to hold it. His hair was no longer as long as it had been at some points in his life—Narcissa had gloried in the rare occasions when Lucius would let it grow, or grow it, until it was halfway down his back—but it still reached a respectable length unbound. Lucius turned so that the firelight would shine on it.  
  
This was not seduction, or at least it was only as much seduction as was consonant with natural gestures. Lucius had meant what he said to Potter. They would enjoy themselves this evening, and let the consequences be what they might.  
  
Come to that, Lucius did not know that there would _be_ consequences. Potter might choose to back away.  
  
Potter’s throat was throbbing continually, and he watched Lucius’s hair for a long time before he made any move. That was all right with Lucius, who sat with his eyes on the fire and felt Potter’s gaze moving over him like a caress.   
  
Then Potter leaned forwards, hands held out, even twitching.   
  
He ran his fingers through Lucius’s hair. The motion wrung a shudder from Lucius and a quiet, urgent moan from Potter. Lucius locked his muscles to keep from turning around and taking Potter’s mouth in a kiss. He had done most of the seeking, the initiating, from the hunt to the one kiss they had shared. It was Potter’s turn.  
  
Potter seemed at least as much inclined to do that as he had been to ask uncomfortable questions about where Draco would fit into Lucius’s life after this. He leaned forwards and breathed into Lucius’s hair, still stroking it. Lucius bowed his head so that a few strands tugged out of Potter’s grip, and knew from the sound of shifting muscles and creaking wood that Potter had risen to his feet to maintain his hold.  
  
Further and further he bent, and Potter followed, until he was bracing one hand on Lucius’s back and making soft, impatient little sighs in his throat. His other hand still never stopped the stroking. Lucius shifted in place, wondering if he would have to seize the initiative after all to make Potter do something _else_.  
  
Potter laughed quietly. “You want me to touch you elsewhere?” he asked, his voice so low that Lucius found it hard to distinguish the tone. “Oh, all right. If you’re sure.”  
  
And he kissed the nape of Lucius’s neck, parting his hair to either side like a waterfall to reach the skin.  
  
It was Lucius’s turn to moan. He didn’t care to muffle or hide the sound, and it broke from him in small, jerking breaths. Potter paused in shock. Perhaps he had assumed that he would never get that much from Lucius no matter how much he gave.  
  
But his hands tightened to show approval of it, and he kept breathing and biting and kissing and stroking and touching.  
  
Lucius let it continue until he could no longer stand not to have his hands on Potter. Then he leaned back slowly, so Potter could maintain his balance, and turned.   
  
His touch came down on cloth first, the rough material of Potter’s robes, and when he pushed that aside, there was a shirt beneath. But Potter seemed to sense what he wanted and tilted his head so that Lucius could touch his shoulder.  
  
Warm, wiry, skin shifting back and forth over muscles as tense as those of a wild animal. Lucius wanted to snarl in triumph when he remembered that no one else had touched Potter this way in seven years.  
  
Potter seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he lifted his head and tensed still further. Lucius frowned. He might as well be caressing a mountain range for as much pleasure as Potter was getting out of this.  
  
“Relax,” he whispered, and turned his head so that his hair instead of his hand brushed Potter’s bare skin. Potter half-shut his eyes and breathed more easily. _He likes my hair_ , Lucius thought. _I will be sure to remember this_. “I know you cannot be a virgin.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m not,” Potter breathed, shifting back and forth in place as if he didn’t know whether to come nearer or pull back. “But it’s been a long, long time, and it was only the one.”  
  
“Only the one what?” Lucius urged Potter nearer with a series of light, furtive touches to the back of his neck and the skin behind his ears. Potter uttered a tortured-sounding gasp. Lucius paused and scanned his face. “Only the one what?” he repeated.  
  
“Only the one lover.” Potter met his gaze fearlessly, though he flushed. “Ginny was the only one I ever had. I know you’ve had many. Dozens, probably. Or hundreds. How the fuck should I expect this to be an _equal_ exchange?”  
  
Lucius felt his cock become hard enough to be troublesome. He had suspected this, but there was a difference between suspecting and _knowing_. He stroked, bearing down a bit harder with his fingers this time, and Potter hissed in surprise, as though he hadn’t known he liked to be touched like that.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Lucius said. “I will do what I can to give you pleasure, though of a different kind than you enjoyed with your fiancée.”  
  
Potter looked at him through half-lidded eyes. Now that he had dropped the barriers Lucius had never seen past, he looked more naked with his shirt and robes halfway down his shoulder than most people would fully undressed. “The power dynamics are still important to you,” he said.  
  
“Yes,” Lucius answered honestly, since it would be stupid to expect Potter to believe him if he said otherwise. “But I will never despise you for your reactions.”  
  
That promise, neither particularly profound nor particularly original, made Potter moan harder than he’d done since he first touched Lucius. And then he opened his arms, and gave himself over to the fire that burned between them.  
  
Lucius smiled. He had known Potter would be good at this kind of honest, passionate lovemaking.  
  
And then he became too busy to smile or think patronizing thoughts, because Potter overwhelmed him like a flood tide.  
  
*  
  
There was so much to Lucius, and all of it _brilliant_.  
  
Harry hurried from place to place on his body at first, wanting to kiss or touch everywhere at once. His neck, which arched and dipped at weird angles when Harry did something to him. His collarbone, which disappeared intriguingly into the shirt that Harry impatiently pushed aside. His hands, with long fingers that Harry wanted to suck. His cock, which Harry was tired of only feeling and yearned to see.  
  
But Lucius tolerated just a few minutes of that before he clamped a hand down on Harry’s head and stilled him. Then he dragged Harry back up and consumed him in another kiss.  
  
Harry shuddered and clung to Lucius, pressing the backs of his fingers against his cheeks. He had never experienced anything like this, this growth of desire until he would have burned down the world for a touch. Yes, he had felt wonderful things with Ginny, and he had _thought_ he felt wonderful things from the first kiss, but this…  
  
It was what it was.  
  
As Lucius said, they could deal with their questions and problems later, and this was enough to make Harry think that was a viable option.  
  
He let Lucius guide him, taking Harry’s hands between his own and sliding them coaxingly down his body. Harry learned the wonders of his ribs that way, the direction his skin flexed as he breathed, the steady pounding of his heart and the curved weight of his sternum beneath supple muscle.  
  
Lucius showed Harry his hips, splaying Harry’s fingers wide with his own, making Harry feel both bone and muscle. Harry shut his eyes and shivered. He wasn’t entirely sure if it came from the body he was touching or the way Lucius looked at him, but at least he could concentrate on just one set of sensations that way.  
  
“Now,” Lucius said, and urged Harry’s hand down to his cloth-covered cock.  
  
“Oh,” Harry breathed, and let his fingers close around it, his thumb seeking the head, his other fingers wrapping around the shaft. It seemed lighter than he had thought it would. In his head, when he dared to imagine Lucius touching him with it or sliding into his body, it was incredibly heavy.  
  
“Yes,” Lucius said. One word and no more, like his instructions, but Harry felt his body tilt, and he opened his eyes, already knowing what he would see.  
  
Lucius’s head was bent back, his eyes shut and his face calm but his heart beating so fast that Harry could see the motions of it working through him. Harry moved his hand up and down in one loose stroke. Lucius moaned, then sighed and leaned forwards as if he would faint on the floor. Harry caught him around the shoulders with his free arm.  
  
Lucius breathed along the side of Harry’s neck, a touch of frost and fire, and then began another kiss, his mouth returning to Harry as if he hadn’t breathed since the last time their lips touched. Harry moaned, a sound that seemed to have no end, as Lucius’s tongue caressed his and made his mouth open wider than he had ever opened it for anyone. Lucius shifted sideways and pulled, and guided Harry down to the couch, until his back brushed against the smooth cushions.  
  
Harry tensed for one moment. He was remembering the lovers Lucius had had, the skill that the merest touch on his body exhibited, the unhurried desire Lucius had in his eyes when he looked at Harry, the way his movements were open but never uninhibited.  
  
 _I can’t compare with that. I can’t compete with that._  
  
“Relax,” Lucius said above him.  
  
Harry opened his eyes and glared. “Easy for you to say,” he mouthed more than said, because Lucius’s hand rested on his chest in an apparently idle manner that took the saliva away from his mouth.  
  
“Yes,” Lucius said, “it is.” He tilted his head, and his hair brushed against Harry’s chest and nipples. Harry shuddered and wondered why he responded that powerfully. He had never done that when Ginny wore her hair long. “But you overestimate my experience,” Lucius continued in a gentle, iron voice, as he reached down and undid Harry’s trousers. He stripped them off so casually it was done before Harry thought about the consequences. “I have slept with many people, that is true. But this is still new to me.”  
  
Harry stared at him. “Why?” he asked at last, or maybe his eyes asked it. Lucius took his senses away, and he became uncertain whether he had spoken or not.   
  
“Because I have never slept with _you_ ,” Lucius said, and his eyes were as sincere as starlight.  
  
Harry shut his eyes. He might be an idiot to be seduced by words that simple. Lucius had probably said them to lovers before, his common sense argued.  
  
But if Lucius took away his senses, that was also true of Harry’s common sense.  
  
And if it became too much, he could ask Lucius to stop. Harry was certain Lucius would respect that.  
  
Willingly, he waded out into the sea of fire.  
  
*  
  
The faint smile on Potter’s lips told Lucius that he had relaxed at last.  
  
He could go slowly now, and focus on something other than overwhelming Potter in the fear that, if he did not, Potter would pick up his clothes and storm off in a fury of indignation. He drew his pants down slowly, and Potter began to give fast, shallow breaths as Lucius stroked his inner thighs.  
  
His cock, revealed now, stood up straight and throbbed in a way that made Lucius’s mouth water. He murmured something incoherent and dipped his head. Ordinarily he would wait, but it wasn’t ordinary for him to have a jaguar in his bed.  
  
He licked a line up the side of Potter’s cock, and Potter cried out and flailed, his fingers digging into the cushions of the couch as if he imagined that he could lessen the sensation by hanging on there. Lucius paused, wondering that such a small thing should command such a response, and then remembered that it was seven years since Potter had had someone else touch his cock. He smiled and did it again.  
  
“Don’t, I’ll come,” Potter said, in a choked warble.  
  
“Do you imagine that that is the end?” Lucius murmured. He spoke close enough to Potter’s cock that he could watch it twitch and dance in response to his breath. “Or that I will let it be?”  
  
“I don’t—I want it,” Potter said. “I want you. I want this to happen. But—” He lifted his hips and gave a controlled little writhe. “But I don’t want it to happen like this,” he whispered.  
  
Lucius nodded, although Potter had his eyes squeezed tightly shut and couldn’t see him, and drew back. “As you wish, then,” he said, and slid one fingernail down Potter’s chest, digging into and shredding the skin.  
  
Potter squirmed, mouth opening in a soundless snarl, and said, “I don’t like things like that.”  
  
“Yes?” Lucius glanced politely down at Potter’s full cock. “But it appears that your body disagrees with your mind. And I know which one I will listen to.” He leaned down and fastened his mouth around Potter’s left nipple as he drew his fingernail down again.  
  
Potter made a sound for which Lucius knew no name and kicked randomly with his legs. Lucius was glad that he did not have his head in the way, or he might have had to be upset about that. As it was, he licked down the trails his fingers had left and sat up, making sure that his hair fell around his face like the wings of an owl. “What do you wish?” he asked with calm politeness, as if they still sat opposite each other in chairs and sipped at their wine.  
  
Potter glared at him in silence for some time, his chest heaving. Lucius used the moment to examine him in a more leisurely fashion than he had managed so far. His skin was unexpectedly pale, red where Lucius’s nails had scored him. His legs were long and slender. His nipples stood up with an urgency that enchanted Lucius more than the urgency of his erection. Black hair bristled everywhere, and did not at all lessen his resemblance to a stalking great cat.  
  
“I want to see your bedroom,” Potter said, in a voice as harsh as the scratches on his chest.  
  
And any impulse that Lucius might have had to laugh was gone.  
  
*  
  
Lucius drew him up the stairs, shining. That was what Harry remembered of the walk afterwards. He was sure that Malfoy Manor was amazing, glorious, wonderful, and all the rest of it. But what he saw was Lucius.  
  
Lucius lit both the fire and the candles in his room, as if he wished to have as much light as possible. Harry would have smiled, remembering how dark and Dark he’d once thought the Malfoys, but his mouth was too hungry to form a smile. All he could do was stare, and then walk forwards and lay his hands flat against Lucius’s chest.  
  
A hand trailed over his own scratches again, and then rose and touched the scar on his forehead. “So marked,” Lucius murmured. He brought his left arm forwards in a smooth, sweeping motion that had more than a hint of challenge in it.  
  
Harry looked down fearlessly at the Dark Mark, wondering what Lucius expected him to do because of it. Then he laid his hand over it. He did tense, wondering if he would feel a pulse of anger or hatred, but all he felt was a slightly rougher patch of skin. Voldemort was dead, dead long since, and the power behind the Mark with him. Harry looked up and shook his head. “Are you trying to make me back away?” he asked. “I won’t.”  
  
Lucius’s arm curled behind his neck, and his mouth took over.  
  
Harry didn’t know why his kisses were so much more powerful here, in this pale room of flashing bronze and silver splendor, which he glimpsed from the corners of his eyes as Lucius steered him towards the bed. Perhaps Lucius had assumed that he couldn’t kiss too strongly when he still didn’t know whether Harry would run away.  
  
Harry got a hand in edgewise and tugged hard at the ends of Lucius’s hair. Lucius changed the passion and force of his kiss, upping both, but not the direction of his shoving. Harry felt a bed behind his knees, and he sat down. It was important to him that he should show he was here by choice, rather than Lucius bearing him down to the sheets like a prisoner or a captured maiden.  
  
Lucius, to Harry’s stunned astonishment, knelt in front of him instead, dropping back from the kiss to touch the marks he had left on Harry’s chest again. His eyes were hot enough that Harry found them painful to look at, probably because lust wasn’t the only part of their flame. Harry turned to the fire, and Lucius brought his head around again with a savage motion that hurt his neck.  
  
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” Lucius asked, breathing thick and warm over Harry’s nipples, so that they stood to life. Then he laughed, which made Harry grip his own hips so he wouldn’t buck. “No, what am I saying? I know that you do not know. You disdain compliments, and if you were more aware of your beauty, you would not be so _un_ aware of your own power.”  
  
“You’re making me uncomfortable,” Harry said, which was the only thing he could say to that ruthlessly honest a declaration.  
  
“Am I?” Lucius touched one of his marks again, and Harry caught his breath, which made his stomach muscles flex in and out. But Lucius didn’t try to renew the scratch, only watched it for a minute before looking up at Harry. “Why is that, I wonder? Am I touching you in a way you don’t like?”  
  
“No.” Harry arched so that his cock brushed the underside of Lucius’s wrist. Lucius chuckled and moved his hand higher.  
  
“Then suppose you tell me,” Lucius said, a dark eagerness in his voice.   
  
Harry would have rolled his eyes, except that he didn’t think he was capable of it right now. Lucius _always_ had to be like this, didn’t he? He would want to know the reason for a snowstorm _in_ the snowstorm.  
  
“I know what I look like,” Harry said. “And it’s nice of you to want to compliment me, but I’m perfectly capable of looking in a mirror, so you might as well save your breath.” He reached out and put his hands on Lucius’s shoulders, intending to draw him to his feet and into the next steps of the dance. That ought to thoroughly distract him.  
  
Lucius moved, surging upwards, but not as Harry had intended. Harry found himself on his back after all, his wrists pinned above his head by Lucius’s hands, while Lucius stretched out above him and watched him from less than an inch away. His eyes were as satisfied as a cat’s.  
  
“Let me tell you why you are wrong,” Lucius whispered.  
  
Harry felt his mouth fill with saliva. He had to swallow several times to make sure that none of it trickled down his cheek in a way that would have been thoroughly embarrassing.  
  
 _What the fuck_? Could the offer of a compliment, one that people like Willowwand had been all too eager to pay him, really be enough to make his mouth water?  
  
Apparently.   
  
And then Harry stopped paying attention to his basic bodily reactions, because Lucius had lost his smile, and leaned closer still.  
  
“Your eyes shine,” Lucius said. “You have been through horrors and war, and yet still they can reflect light upon the world. I know few like that. The war crippled some and killed many others who yet walk about on their legs and pass as living. It was an end to their _growth_. But you have lived, and changed, and you have rid yourself of the one great block to further growth: that vow you swore.” His index finger traced a wandering path down the inside of Harry’s wrist.  
  
Harry arched his back and then tried to pretend he hadn’t. He’d heard all sorts of nonsense about his eyes before. What Lucius said was new, but it also seemed obvious that Harry wasn’t the only one like that. Lucius had managed to survive the war just fine, and Hermione, and Ron—  
  
“No. You will listen to me.” Lucius’s voice was light as a steel blade. “Your body is honest. The gestures of passion that you cannot hide, the way you stare before you fling yourself forwards in a fierce challenge, the hawk-look that you give me when you are warning me that you cannot be subdued or bribed. I am tired of those who can manage to conceal everything they are feeling. You show the most profound emotions, and that is as it should be. It lets me distinguish you from the mass of shallow souls I am surrounded by every day.”  
  
“I wish you wouldn’t distinguish me by running other people down,” Harry managed to say, though his voice was so dry it seemed a miracle he had said that much.  
  
A laugh burst out of Lucius, which seemed forced from him against his will. “Very well,” he said, releasing Harry’s wrists and lying down beside him. “Then I will not.” He brought his hand back into play, caressing one of the lines of hair that pointed down Harry’s chest. “Will you still listen to me?”  
  
Harry turned his head, and saw the gleam of the firelight in Lucius’s eyes. He felt as though that light had reached out and embraced him. Lucius could talk about Harry’s eyes being distinctive and alive all he liked, but _his_ eyes were the wonder.  
  
And the shutters that had covered them so far had cracked and parted. Harry saw a silvery depth to them that he hadn’t imagined could exist.  
  
“Go on,” Harry whispered.  
  
*  
  
Lucius knew it would be undignified to howl in triumph and close his teeth on Potter’s throat, let alone counterproductive when he had promised to list his beauties for him and Potter was in the mood to listen.  
  
But he still wanted to do it when he saw those fascinated eyes peering at him.  
  
Lucius saw the unsteadiness of his hand was visible as he reached out and stroked Potter’s chest, his shoulders, the line between his nipples, but he didn’t truly care. His voice had gone thick and heavy, creamy, and that appeared to paralyze Potter. He probably wouldn’t spend a lot of time noting Lucius’s loss of control.  
  
“Your manner,” Lucius said. “You have grown, I said. You do not insult others merely to hear yourself speak, but you have no trouble with defending your reputation or your actions. So few ever learn that balance.” He bowed his head and let his hair sweep across Potter’s neck, so that Potter would not think too deeply about the implications of his words. “I have not.”  
  
Potter’s hand closed over his, his fingertips gently caressing Lucius’s knuckles. Perhaps he had not hidden his tremor clearly enough after all.   
  
“You have,” Lucius whispered. “That is better than perfect control.” He licked Potter’s left nipple. Potter jumped, and groaned, and folded towards him. Lucius rejoiced, but he drew back his mouth so that he could speak. He had promised.  
  
“You are strong,” he said. “You move like a wild thing in its own territory, estimating the threats to its safety with perfect wisdom. You smile as if the world could end and find you still balanced on the precipice, still hoping. You laugh and the world pauses to hear it, waiting for its echo, wondering that it should have one treasure but still half-expecting another.”  
  
Potter’s cheeks burned, and he looked up at Lucius through half-lidded eyes. Lucius expected a denial of his beauty like the one he’d got a few minutes before, but Potter said, “You—feel that? Really?” His voice was soft and tentative.  
  
 _He might believe it_. And Lucius had a vision, sudden as lightning, of what Potter might look, do, be, become, when he acknowledged his own merits and his right to be stared at.  
  
His voice cracked down the middle. His hand trembled. His eyes blazed. All the signs he had worked so hard to hide shone out as he answered, “I do.”  
  
Potter rolled upwards, sleek as a diving otter, and brought their mouths together. Lucius moved with him, trying at once to learn the slope of Potter’s shoulders and to teach him the angles of another man’s chest, the shape of his skin, the taste of his mouth.  
  
Potter was shuddering and whining all over long before Lucius felt that he knew enough to continue with the seduction, and hooking his leg around Lucius’s hip so that he could rut and thrust and frot. “Please,” he whispered, semi-coherent, the pupils in his eyes wide like open flowers. “Please. I need you.”   
  
“Patience,” Lucius said, but it was a breath with no voice behind it. His own need leaped to life at Potter’s words, curling around his cock like the touch of a whip. He reached down and tried to take his own erection in hand, to squeeze and soothe it, but Potter’s leg was in the way.  
  
 _So warm_. Lucius felt the fever bursting through him. He dropped his head to Potter’s shoulder which, known, should calm him, but it only made the fever worsen. His sight was swimming. He could see nothing but Potter’s eyes, and green filled all the world.  
  
This was desire taking him by the throat. Lucius had experienced it before—oh, of course he had, on an evening when Narcissa shone like a star and his blood shone like the sea by moonlight—but he had not expected it like this, not with Potter, or not so soon, or maybe at all. Desire ate his directions and his definitions and his plans.  
  
He had his wand on his hand. Had he held it all the time? No—no, he thought not, but he couldn’t remember from where he had picked it up. He touched it to Potter’s arse and gasped aloud the words of the required spell.  
  
*  
  
Harry had used the lubrication spell before, but not for years. He had forgotten how odd it felt to get slick down there—not horrible or wrong, just _odd_. He squirmed and lifted his legs higher, flinging them around Lucius’s hips in a loose embrace. If Lucius didn’t plan to get on with things, he would just have to do it himself.  
  
He whined something. He thought his sounds were wordless at first, but then heard himself repeating over and over again, “ _Doitdoitdoitdoit_.” He would have been ashamed if he had remembered how to be.  
  
Lucius reached down to his arse, but his fingers shook so badly that he couldn’t get them in at first. Harry shoved himself back, and that worked. It also made his arse _burn_ as the fingers went in, and he wondered if the pain would wilt his cock and the mood. He thought it should have.  
  
But his eagerness was too much, and instead the pain made the wave beating through him crest. Harry cried out in shock and humiliation and heat, and came all over his belly and the hand Lucius had put there as if to steady himself.  
  
He shut his eyes a moment later, not wanting to see the disappointment and chiding he was sure would haunt Lucius’s expression. Indeed, Lucius simply knelt there with his fingers in Harry’s entrance and his hand on Harry’s belly, and said nothing, nor moved. Harry hissed through his teeth and tried to imagine what would happen next. Both his mind and his life remained blanks.  
  
Then Lucius said, “You are as beautiful when you come as you are in the middle of an art exhibition,” and Harry opened his eyes.  
  
Lucius lifted his semen-covered hand and slid it down Harry’s gut and lower, never looking away from him or blinking. Then Harry felt the fingers of _that_ hand creep into his entrance, and he shuddered and thrashed.  
  
Lucius smiled. “I think I will allow no one else to know that,” he added meditatively, and it took Harry a moment to realize that he was referring to Harry’s beauty—supposed beauty—during orgasm, and not the way he liked having his own spunk in his arse. Then he bowed his head, licked Harry’s chest between his nipples, and worked his fingers from both sides into Harry’s arse, with light, quick jabs.  
  
Harry moaned throatily and spread his legs wider, only to realize from the ache and the way they met resistance that he couldn’t part them more. Lucius bit his chest and smiled against it, then slid back and poised himself with his cock at Harry’s entrance.  
  
“This will hurt,” he said.  
  
Harry glared at him. The shock and the humiliation were gone as if they had never been; he hadn’t known Lucius had the power to banish them. Only the heat remained. “I don’t care.”  
  
“I am told that one often suffers difficulty in walking the next morning.” Lucius’s pleasure was almost as visible as the firelight.  
  
“I don’t care.” Harry tried to spread his legs again, and then remembered. He settled for tapping his foot against Lucius’s side.   
  
“You might,” Lucius said. “There were qualms that you had earlier.”  
  
“Only _you_ ,” Harry said, so close to laughter and to screaming in exasperation that he had no idea which one would win, “would be confident enough to say something like that _now_ , when you’re confident that it won’t scare me off.”  
  
“I only wish to make you aware of what you are choosing, so you properly appreciate it,” Lucius said with snow-like innocence, and then sank into him.  
  
Harry gabbled and garbled and groaned and perhaps made other sounds that began with “g.” He let his head fall to the side and bit his tongue. A slow trail of liquid crept down his chin, and Lucius reached out and ran his fingers through it. Harry looked up to see blood shining in the light.  
  
“Yes,” Lucius said, less a snarl than a sigh, and snapped his hips forwards.  
  
Though some would say that he was passive, that he lay there under Lucius and let the fucking happen to him, Harry felt more active than he had in a long time. There was so much of Lucius to absorb, for one thing, the gold and the white and the delicate red of the flush on his cheeks and throat. There were the thrusts to match, for Harry pushed back and never let Lucius think he had gone too far in subduing Harry with the newness of the sensation. There were the movements of Lucius’s hands to guess, for they stirred and fluttered and slid in odd directions, cutting the air like comets.  
  
His hair fell back along his neck and shoulders. His chest heaved with deep, panting breaths. His hips moved in ways that told Harry he had gone past the boundary of control.  
  
And all of it made Harry want to shout with triumph, to say that he was the one who had caused this, and the one here, experiencing it with Lucius, and that they were both _alive_.  
  
Without turning their backs on the past. Without turning their backs on the dead. Harry had thought he would feel at least a twinge over betraying Ginny, but he didn’t. Because this wasn’t a betrayal.  
  
 _Seven years later, and a different person. I’m not betraying her. That vow wasn’t worth making in the first place. She would never have asked me to make it._  
  
Harry reached high, clawing at Lucius’s shoulders, wanting to leave a mark of his own the way that Lucius had earlier left marks on him, straining, making the muscles in his arm ache as if they were pulling away from the tendons, reaching and reaching…  
  
And the moment Harry touched him on the shoulder, Lucius shuddered and came as if he had finished a race.  
  
His eyes were shut. His mouth worked soundlessly open and then closed. His chest bent and rippled. Harry absorbed every detail, and still it wasn’t enough. Still he thought he would have to play over a Pensieve memory before he could truly, honestly, grasp it the way it was, the way it had been.  
  
Lucius fell on his chest. Harry winced automatically, but the weight of another man there was less heavy than he expected. Maybe it had something to do with the way Lucius was still inside him and so had part of his weight resting on the bed and Harry’s thighs.  
  
Maybe it was the sheer elation that filled him and felt as though it gave him the strength to lift the Ministry off the ground.  
  
He shut his eyes and wrapped his arms around Lucius. At the moment, he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.  
  
*  
  
Lucius opened his eyes slowly.  
  
He always felt as though he went somewhere else during sex. Colors changed. Scents changed, or else a certain peculiar scent followed him. His body acted without his direct intervention and control, and dizzying hormones raced through his blood. He saw the world through a stained glass window.  
  
Now, he had someone in bed who had made him live that experience so intensely that Lucius thought he could not have experienced much more if he had been aware of his partner every moment.  
  
When he looked down at Potter—or sideways, as his head rested next to Potter’s chin—he saw no resentment there, no suspicion that he might have lived through something Potter was unable to share. Instead, Potter gave him a smile of radiant happiness that rendered Lucius suddenly uncertain if he was, after all, the one who had ascended elsewhere.  
  
“I want to try that sometime,” Potter said. His eyes had begun to close, but he wrenched them open through sheer stubbornness and stared at Lucius challengingly.  
  
“Perhaps you shall,” Lucius said, as generously as he could. His blood still shuddered in his veins. The thought of giving that up to someone who had no experience with topping a man was not a pleasant one.  
  
But warmer and greater and more enfolding was the thought of sharing his bed with Potter another time.  
  
Lucius had occasionally had lovers whom he knew he did not mean to keep for long. They were too shallow, too simple, too uncomplicated to appeal to him.  
  
His feeling now was the exact opposite of that. He could not see where his experience or time with Potter would end.  
  
 _This is it._  
  
Once, when he was young, Lucius had had a dream of standing at the edge of a vast country, golden and green. The gold and green both came from fields of grasses, rippling in the wind, rising and falling in patterns that constantly changed their coloration. Lucius had looked out and known that wonders and terrors, secrets greater than wizards could conceive, hid in the grasses and the hills and dells they concealed.  
  
He stood now on the edge of a similar vast country of experience: being with Potter. Lucius could see the gold and the green, and knew them for his own joy and curiosity, his delight in Potter’s beauty and his power, his pleasure in sex and his pride in having such a lover. This was several different things he had wanted, all in one person.  
  
Lucius was not sure that he would find it in him to let Potter go, should Potter ever be so foolish as to require freedom from him.  
  
“Lucius?”  
  
How long had he been lying there, eyes dazed with gazing on the future, staring straight past Potter, the living present? Lucius shook himself slightly and replied, “Yes?” His voice was hoarse, he noted with some annoyance.  
  
 _He challenges me. He breaks my boundaries, and renders me a person I do not know._  
  
Lucius experienced a brief moment of vertigo, as he had earlier that evening when he was trying to charm Potter into accepting the ring and Potter had resisted. If he could not maintain control—  
  
“That was brilliant,” Potter said, and smiled again.  
  
And Lucius smiled back, and touched Potter’s scarred, sweat-marked brow, and decided that, as he had met and conquered every other challenge, he could meet and conquer the challenge of change.


	9. Lion

_Hunting together._  
  
Harry woke at what felt like an early hour, but try as he might, Lucius was up before him.  
  
“Good morning,” said the refined voice, which Harry felt like treacle pouring over his skin now that he had some experience of how the body felt. “Do you prefer juice or tea for breakfast?”  
  
Harry lay still and inhaled the scent of the sheets before he responded. He had the feeling that calculation and long pauses would do him no harm at all with Lucius. And if house-elves were serving everything, as Harry suspected was the case, then he didn’t have to worry about the food cooling or being less than perfect if he waited.  
  
“Tea,” he said at last, and sat up and turned around in the bed. He wondered if Lucius would be naked, dressed, or somewhere in between.  
  
Lucius wore a long and pale dressing robe, which was draped around his body casually enough that one could imagine the lines of his chest and shoulders beneath it—at least, Harry amended conscientiously, one could if one was familiar with them already. He found that he didn’t like to think about whether other people who might have been with Lucius like this could see them or not. He had the _Prophet_ in front of him and a plate covered with small pieces of meat that Harry didn’t recognize. He eyed them curiously as he conjured a dressing robe for himself and came forwards to sit on the other side of the table from Lucius. His teacup was already waiting for him.  
  
“What are you eating?” he asked.  
  
“Quail,” Lucius said. “I favor it in the morning, sometimes.” He didn’t raise his eyes from the paper.  
  
Harry made a face despite himself. “That sounds like something more suited for a full meal,” he remarked, aware that he wanted to make Lucius look at him, and wondering if it was an unworthy desire. “Or one of those Ministry farces that I do my best not to attend.”  
  
“Do you attend any of them?” Lucius turned a page. His voice remained no more than mildly interested. “Since you turned against the Ministry, I imagine that you have not been showered with invitations.”  
  
“At times I go to see friends or contacts,” Harry said, and wondered if he should clap his hands or merely ask for a house-elf so that he could get some food. Tea was nice, but not filling—at least, not without Lucius’s attention. “And to see what people are saying about me, of course.”  
  
“Of course,” Lucius said, lifting his eyes at last. “One must be talked about to achieve anything in the wizarding world.”  
  
Harry caught his breath. Lucius’s glance was like a flame in the way that it burned away the shelters Harry had instinctively tried to hide behind. He swallowed, wondering if Lucius had known it would be like this and if that was the reason he had looked down so steadfastly until this point.  
  
“Let us have one thing absolutely understood,” Lucius said. His voice was low but clear, like a wind blowing off an iceberg. “You are mine now. I will expect no straying, no sharing. I do not share well. If I hear a rumor that you are dating anyone else, then I will strike first and ask questions later.”  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. In one way, such a declaration of possession made him feel breathless and flattered. Ginny had never been that jealous, because she had been secure that he would never cheat on her.  
  
On the other hand, it made him feel bloody annoyed.   
  
“Then you’ll be challenging a lot of people to duels, I expect,” Harry snapped.   
  
Lucius laid down the paper and leaned forwards to listen better, his eyes filled with an absolutely feral light.  
  
“There will _always_ be rumors about me,” Harry said. “I’m the Boy-Who-Lived. And there will always be people like Willowwand who think they can force their attentions on me even though I give them a clear refusal.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “If you can’t live with that, if I’m always to be the one at fault, then perhaps it’s for the best if I leave now.”  
  
The breathless feeling had changed to one of anger; the flattered feeling was gone. So Lucius was like all the rest of them, wanting Harry so exclusively that the inevitable stories would drive him away, blaming Harry for fame he had never wanted—  
  
Lucius stepped around the table and caught Harry in imprisoning arms that held his own arms firmly at his sides. “Do calm down,” he murmured, managing to sound more reasonable than Harry had thought he would. “I did not mean that I would accuse you of straying because of ridiculous stories. I warn you only against taking another lover of your own free will.”  
  
“Oh, yes?” Harry wrenched at his arms, irritated to find that Lucius was stronger than he was. _Not magically, though,_ he thought, and began to call his power. “And how are you going to distinguish them? Plenty of people haven’t done so. Sometimes the people who knew me well in school believe them.” _Everyone except Ron and Hermione,_ he added silently. Even Neville had firecalled him once to ask if it was true that Harry had slept with his grandmother, a story that was the result of an exceptionally slow newsday at the _Prophet._  
  
Lucius was silent for long moments. Then he said, “Forgive me. I can only imagine that others will be as eager to have you as I am.”  
  
“Do you think I would _let_ them?” Harry replied disdainfully. His magic leaned warmly against his ribs from the inside, ready to do as he commanded. He was contemplating a slight sting to the bottom of Lucius’s arms. “Possessiveness like that gives me no credit for strength of my own whatsoever.”  
  
Lucius, though certainly perceptive enough to guess that his tight hold was irritating Harry, tightened it further still. “Forgive me,” he repeated, voice low in Harry’s ear and as warm as the tea. “But there must be a way to reconcile the claims of my need and your independence.”  
  
“Must there?” Harry kept still, not letting the magic get out of him, but not letting Lucius’s words unduly influence him, either. “I don’t see why. Perhaps we’re suited to each other, but in limited ways. Living together may not be one of those ways.”  
  
Lucius showed no signs of letting him go. Therefore, Harry did nothing but stare steadily into his eyes and wait for his words to penetrate that stubborn brain.  
  
*  
  
 _Everything with Potter is a battle._  
  
Lucius had to laugh at himself as his visions of a perfect, smooth time with Potter puffed into oblivion. Of course being with him was not perfect. It could not be so when they had challenges to face from the Ministry, Draco, and, doubtless, Potter’s friends and the Auror who was obsessed with him.  
  
He loosened his arms enough that Potter would feel less trapped, and smoothed his hair back from his scar.  
  
“Everyone sees you as their hero,” he said. “Or almost everyone. Your friends and your lover do not.”  
  
Potter blinked at the word _lover_ , but otherwise maintained a calm face and a calm stare at Lucius.   
  
“You have managed to live your own life in spite of the pressures of fame,” Lucius continued. “That is a task many would call impossible.” He stared at the scar and marveled that he now knew what it tasted like. “Your courage, your strength, are equal to that. Do you believe that they are not equal to the pressure of this relationship between us? And do you believe that my will is not?”  
  
Potter gave a slight start. Lucius was a past master at noting when such things happened, and he was sure that it had been at the moment he spoke the word _relationship._ So Potter had not expected him to call it that, had not expected Lucius to believe in their future as a joined pair so strongly? That was something worth knowing.  
  
“That isn’t the point,” Potter said. His voice remained low and so even that Lucius expected the Minister would find it a surprise if he ever tried to debate Potter. This was not the impulsive child whom Lucius had faced years ago. That impressed him once more, and made him sure that Potter had not approached him last night because of a sudden, regrettable desire that would flare and burn out once assuaged. “I don’t doubt your strength, or mine. But there are some things that simply can’t be compromised or reasoned with. The laws of gravity and heat. I think that this is one of those things, if you insist on having complete control of my movements and who I see. I spent too long as a slave. I’m not going to give into anyone’s ownership.”  
  
Lucius smoothed a hand down Potter’s back. The dip between his shoulder blades probably tasted wonderful, though Lucius had not had a chance to absorb that last night. “Then perhaps you cannot compromise your independence,” he said. “But my desire for ownership is not such a fundamental law of my being.” He met Potter’s eyes and smiled in a way that he knew made his face look even more handsome than usual. “It may be, however, that I will require reassurance in other ways if I trust to your word.”  
  
“Such as?” Potter still looked wary, but less as if he were a deer that would bolt the moment Lucius began talking.  
  
“Constant compliments,” Lucius said. Potter only looked interested instead of scornful, so he went on. “Constant sex.” That brought a smile. Lucius touched his cheek and tried not to think about how much he would enjoy seeing it pressed to his pillow again right now. As close as they were, Potter could not miss Lucius’s reaction to such a thought, and he would assume that the conversation was not sufficiently serious. He had not yet learned that seriousness and desire could coexist. “Constant closeness.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound so bad, actually,” said Potter, and his voice was a little breathless.  
  
Lucius smiled at him and released him. Potter sat down on the chair he’d risen from, looking thoughtful.  
  
“Did you wish breakfast?” Lucius glanced at the empty plate in front of Potter.  
  
Potter smiled at him. “I wasn’t sure how to get it.”  
  
“Clap your hands, and then name the foods aloud that you want,” Lucius said. “Bell will serve you.” He waited for the automatic distaste to cross Potter’s face when he named his house-elf, but Potter only looked thoughtful again, then clapped his hands and began to name a list of common breakfast foods, of which Lucius only bothered to listen to the toast and eggs.  
  
The food appeared, and Potter ate. Lucius sat opposite him, studying his manners. Tranquil, practiced, polished. Of course, he had expected that, seeing how much time Potter had spent in the company of people who would expect sophistication from a patron of the arts. And there would have been private parties that Potter would have had to make a good showing at, even for the least fussy people.  
  
He remained as beautiful as he had. Lucius had wondered whether bedding Potter would mar his visions in that direction. If anything, however, Potter seemed heightened in beauty now. He was comfortable in his body as Lucius had never seen him. A subtle but noticeable tension was gone.  
  
 _He at last is getting regular sex again,_ Lucius thought, and couldn’t resist a stretch of self-congratulations. Potter’s gaze came to him at once, which made it even better. Lucius turned his head to the side, and, yes, Potter followed the curve of his neck and the flex of his throat with hungry eyes.   
  
Lucius turned back and gave him a knowing smile. Potter blushed, then returned the smile. Lucius nodded. “I will train you to acknowledge your pleasure and revel in your body over time,” he promised.  
  
“That’s good to know,” Potter said, and Lucius saw, to his astonishment, that Potter was already thinking of something else. The blush in his cheeks had faded, and his eyes were clear as he regarded Lucius. “But what else do we need to face? What else do we need to do? Draco is going to be angry, but _how_ angry? Will be the Aurors hold him for long, or will his Ministry contacts ensure that he’s out in a short while?”  
  
Lucius spent a moment wishing that he could have established more of a hold over Potter than that. Then he said, “I suspect that his contacts will guarantee his release, at least, but his position has been weakened. He attacked me in public, and failed to kill me—a more devastating result than losing his temper in public would have been. I believe those wary of angering you or me will put pressure on him not to turn to them for assistance. His power is broken.” His words ended with a vicious, snapping hiss, a tone which he had once imagined he would never use when discussing Draco. On the other hand, he had once imagined that his son would never disappoint him so violently.  
  
Potter nodded. “Do we need to make a public statement? I know that plenty of people will expect one, but there’s a fine line between doing what’s necessary and catering to the crowd’s appetite for favors.” He made a wry face. “And their appetite for me.”  
  
Lucius bit his lip, hard, so that he would not say some of the things he wanted to in response to that. His jealousy was already like bile, but Potter could not help being famous; his destiny had been chosen for him before he was old enough to make a choice in any way that mattered.  
  
 _And now I am defending him from beliefs I would have shared two months ago._  
  
But that did not trouble Lucius unduly. After all, he had been forced to change his mind quickly more than once, such as both times after the Dark Lord lost, and then convince others that he had always believed that way. In this case, he had much more incentive than he had those times. Then, he had only freedom and life to gain.  
  
This time, power, beauty, and a lover.  
  
He gave Potter a smile that he probably did not understand, if the walleyed glance he gave Lucius was any indication, and said, “I think no statement necessary. Let the papers and the public work themselves into a frenzy of speculation. Meanwhile, we will appear in public as companions and whatever else we please to be. If we are summoned to make statements by the Ministry, of course that is a different thing.”  
  
Potter nodded, using his fork to pick up a last bite of scrambled eggs and frowning at the wall. “Yeah, it probably would have happened already, except that Ron is my friend and he could have used the memories of witnesses to tell him what happened.”  
  
“We should consider,” Lucius said, moving delicately on from an area of knowledge, that of Weasley, that he was happy to leave to Potter, “what should happen when your friends learn the truth.”  
  
Potter gave him a small smile. “Ron already suspects, from the way he looked at me when he came marching in to arrest Draco. But Hermione might take the news badly.”  
  
“And your friends among the artists?” Lucius prompted, when he realized that Potter had no intention of continuing the list.  
  
Potter blinked at him, and then lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “None of them are that close. Most of them are happy as long as I find commissions or patrons for them, and that’s the extent of my involvement.”  
  
“Not good enough,” Lucius said, and showed his smile and his teeth at the same time, so that Potter could evaluate the threat in context. “The wizarding world is poised on the brink of revolution, as you know. What you do and say among the artists in the next few weeks will matter greatly, since that is where your source of power comes from.”  
  
Potter lifted his head in challenge, and Lucius saw the predatory gleam in his eyes for the first time since last night. That told Lucius he would have a fight on his hands.  
  
Lucius knew smiling in approval at this point was a weakness, but he could not help it. He had had lovers before who had expected sharing a bed to change everything between them, who had demanded considerations he would give no one after the event and who had wailed pitifully when he abandoned them. But Potter had not changed. He was still combative, still prone to challenging Lucius’s words if he thought they were not true.  
  
 _Give him his rightful name,_ he told himself, when Potter glared at the smile and drew himself up further.  
  
 _Call him Harry._  
  
*  
  
“Look,” Harry said, keeping his voice low because he thought he would start shouting otherwise. _Does he know how infuriating he is? But of course he does. That’s the way he makes it fun for himself._ “I’m not going to deny I have influence over the artists. Of course I do. But I’ve refused invitations to become a leader of some kind of disaffected faction before now, both from the artists I’ve helped themselves and from Superbus. I can _help_. But I’m not a leader. I’m especially not a war-leader, which it sounds like you’re advising me to become.”  
  
Lucius leaned back against his chair, sleek and posing and still enough to rattle Harry’s breath in his lungs for all of that. Harry bit the inside of his cheek angrily and struggled to maintain his composure in his face, if nowhere else. _It seems it’s not easy to stop wanting him once I’ve started. Damn._  
  
“I am advising you to do nothing,” Lucius said calmly. “This began with a question, that is all. How are your friends among the artists likely to react when they realize that you’re dating notorious former Death Eater Lucius Malfoy?”  
  
“You sound like a _Daily Prophet_ article,” Harry said darkly.  
  
 _That_ got a reaction. Lucius’s lips tightened and his eyes narrowed so rapidly that Harry might have leaped back and tried to put the table between them if it wasn’t already—and if he was that much of a coward. As things stood, he simply gave Lucius a long look and refused to move.  
  
“Answer the question,” Lucius said, after a silence in which Harry thought he was probably considering several different responses and rejecting most of them.  
  
“Some of them won’t care,” Harry said. “Risa Turner surely wouldn’t. My value to them is that I support them and give them advice, and that’s all. Being with you wouldn’t change that.”  
  
Lucius nodded. “And others?”  
  
“Others would try to discredit me,” Harry said, and picked up his cup of tea to take a final sip of it. He needed something to do with his hands, or they would roam nervously over the tabletop and probably reach for Lucius again. “Luke Thornsley, for example. But my conflict with him is old, and I doubt that most people would pay much attention to him.”  
  
“Are there any in the middle category?” Lucius asked calmly. “Any whose disapproval would sting you, and who are likely to disapprove?”  
  
Harry sighed. “One. Giles Burne-Jones, the one you saw me talking to at the exhibition where Thornsley’s statue took center place.”  
  
Lucius nodded as if he recalled the man perfectly, though Harry had to wonder if he did. On the one hand, he was willing to credit Lucius with a retentive memory for faces and names; it would be an asset in the political game he had played for so long. On the other, whether Lucius would notice someone he considered below him was an open question. “Then I should go with you when you speak to him.”  
  
Harry blinked. “Why? I should go by myself, so that he won’t be suspicious.”  
  
“He’s going to be suspicious no matter what happens,” Lucius pointed out. “At least, if I am there, he can see me face-to-face. It’s harder for people to resist me when I do that.”  
  
Harry looked at him in silence until he can find the right words. “I should be disgusted that you’re thinking of manipulating people like that,” he said, “but I can’t be, not when I’ve so often done the same thing myself.”  
  
Lucius gave him a blade-edged smile and didn't deign to comment.  
  
“Yes, all right.” Harry tapped his fingers against his chin as he considered. “And if he makes a cautious statement that you can be trusted, that statement is likely to spread out and encompass most of the artistic community. Everyone knows Giles.”  
  
“Of course,” Lucius said.  
  
Harry wondered about asking him if he planned that, and then refrained. Of _course_ he had planned it that way.   
  
“Should we go today?” Harry asked. “Or wait until we’re summoned to the Ministry to speak about Draco, if we are?”  
  
“Today,” Lucius said, rising to his feet, “for two reasons. First, it never pays to let your enemy dictate your moves. If we show that we are not afraid of anything Superbus might do, then he will hesitate to strike at us.”  
  
Harry nodded. “And the other?”  
  
“If we stay in these rooms much longer,” Lucius said, “I will take you again. And then the expression on your face after that would tempt me to take you a third time. And then we would never get anything done.”  
  
*  
  
“Harry.” The painter looked at Harry exclusively for some moments before he focused on Lucius with a reluctance that Lucius could have chosen to take as insulting. He chose to take it as a sign of respect instead. The man was wary of him, and he should be. “Mr. Malfoy.”  
  
Lucius nodded. “Giles Burne-Jones?” he said, and held out his hand. He could see Burne-Jones gaping at him and feel Harry doing so. He kept his smile hidden behind a mask of bland marble. He did like startling his lovers.  
  
The man nodded and shook Lucius’s hand, watching it as if he thought that it would open any moment to reveal a wrist-blade which Lucius would sink into his gut. It was good that Lucius had perfected a nondescript expression at many Ministry functions; he needed all of it as he surveyed Burne-Jones. Yes, he knew Harry was at home among commoners, but did he _always_ have to choose someone who was so ugly?  
  
Or perhaps the painter was not exactly ugly. Perhaps Lucius’s eyes were dazzled by looking on the fallen star that was Harry for the past seventeen hours. But when they moved into the painter’s home, the contrast between them became all the more apparent.  
  
Harry prowled the room like a cheetah, all long loose movements of his legs and rolling shoulders, gazing up at the paintings with admiration that made him look as if he wanted to eat them. Then he took a chair as if it were a tree branch. Lucius moved lightly to stand beside him, and swiftly enough that he could conceal his erection. He placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. It was as close as he could come right now to the touching he wanted.  
  
And it was an effective way to show Burne-Jones they were together without kissing Harry. Lucius felt some of his arousal subside and his amusement return when he saw the drop-jawed way Burne-Jones regarded them both, twisting his head back and forth as if he assumed that this was a joke.  
  
“I am Harry’s lover,” Lucius said, before Harry could speak the no doubt too-conciliating words he had planned on. “Will that disgust or upset you?”  
  
Harry’s skin slid back and forth under his hand, resembling the skin of the cheetah Lucius had thought he was like earlier. But he didn’t turn and scold Lucius. Lucius was glad of that. A confrontation between them at this point could only have damaged his credibility in Burne-Jones’s eyes, and they were trying to establish a confident, united front.  
  
For long moments, Burne-Jones looked as though he didn’t know how to answer. He was staring mostly at Harry, Lucius noted, as if he had automatically assumed that Harry was in control of what lay between them. Lucius kept his annoyance to himself—he had remained standing partially so that he could make a strong impression on Burne-Jones—and waited for his pronouncement.  
  
“It’s unexpected,” said Burne-Jones at last, taking refuge in a diplomatic word Lucius had often used himself. “How long has this been going on?”  
  
“Since last night,” Harry said, and gave him a wry smile. “I was sorry to disrupt your exhibition that way.”  
  
 _No explanations, no apologies,_ Lucius thought, the words rolling together in his head with a clacking sound like marbles. _I should have told him that before we came into the house._ But he doubted Harry would have listened. Their coming here at all was to attempt an explanation of sorts.  
  
“I was glad you weren’t hurt,” Burne-Jones said. He gave a little sigh, probably of relief, when the conventional words were out of his mouth, and then glanced reluctantly at Lucius. “And you, Mr. Malfoy? I know your son injured you.”  
  
“Harry cast the appropriate spells,” Lucius said, and made his voice gracious and smooth and cool. He moved his hand gently back and forth on Harry’s shoulder, massaging him. “I did not have to spend long in St. Mungo’s because of his quick thinking. I am grateful to him.”  
  
Lucius could only see the skin turning red around Harry’s ears and the nape of his neck, rather than feel the extra heat, but he _did_ feel the slight stiffness of Harry’s shoulder before he gave in and leaned back towards Lucius. “That’s right,” he said. “And we came here because we wanted to know if you think this revelation is going to cause trouble among the artists who know me and sometimes listen to my nebulous scraps of advice.”  
  
Before he could stop himself, Lucius hissed. Such a blunt confession was _not_ why they had come here. They were going to gauge Burne-Jones’s reaction and then use that as a sign of what might happen among other artists close to Harry.   
  
Harry just looked up at him stubbornly, and Burne-Jones gave Lucius a corkscrew smile. “Oh, you didn’t want him to say that, did you?” he taunted softly. He turned back to Harry then, and appeared to forget that there was anyone else in the room. It was a trick Lucius had rarely seen mastered, and he split his mind in two, one part to admire, the other to detest, the man’s control.   
  
“Some people won’t like it,” Burne-Jones said. “The ones who prefer to think of you as a hero, like Henry and Orison.”  
  
Lucius didn’t know either name, but Harry nodded as if he did. “I didn’t expect to please everyone,” he said. “But the others?”  
  
Burne-Jones spread his hands. “I expect most of them will want to know whether it interferes with your giving them money and time and attention.” He deigned to take notice of Lucius again, a glance so cool that Lucius automatically raised a hand to touch his cheek; it felt as if he should carry the marks of ice there. “I hope that you won’t _monopolize_ Harry,” he said. “There are others in the world who need him more than you do.”  
  
“I suggest that you do not try to judge the extent of my need,” Lucius said simply. Simplicity would be best to respond to what was almost a naked threat. Besides, the more absurd suggestion under the surface—that Lucius should step tamely aside if someone _else_ wanted to use Harry—was absurd and did not deserve a response. “But in the meantime, I will help Harry, and shelter him, and care for him. You ought to be in favor of that.” He flattened his hand out on Harry’s shoulder and brought his other one into play, working his fingers down between Harry’s neck and the couch. Harry let his head drop forwards, as graceful and languid as a lion in sunlight.  
  
Burne-Jones gave him a glance steady with hatred, and then stood up. “I think you’ve made clear what you want and what you’re going to do,” he said. “Leave now.”  
  
“You don’t know me as well as you think you do.” Harry’s voice was lazy, but when he brought his head up, Lucius saw Burne-Jones flinch from the look in his eyes. “I know that some people will react to this with anger that Lucius doesn’t deserve, simply because they consider my life to be public property. Let them know that I don’t intend to back away or start dating someone else because they disapprove. I’ll live much the way I did before, but I won’t abandon Lucius and I won’t allow myself to be dictated to.”  
  
Burne-Jones said, “You’ve changed.”  
  
“You speak as though Lucius was an infection,” Harry said, and stood up. Lucius rearranged his hands so that he clasped Harry’s shoulders and leaned around him to smile at Burne-Jones. Let the man think that Lucius was sheltering behind Harry if he wanted. In reality, this was the best way Lucius knew to show how close they were and how much he trusted Harry. “He is not.” Harry paused, then went on in a gentler voice. “I’m still the same person, I promise. I’m just not interested in placating everyone. That’s why we came to you first, among other reasons, so that you could spread truth and not rumors. If you hear them, be good enough to shut them up and explain that you know the truth, won’t you?”  
  
Burne-Jones folded his arms and looked obstinate. “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.”  
  
Harry gave him a tolerant look. “You’re better than that. I know you. If you decide it’s the right thing to do, you will.” And he actually reached out and squeezed the man’s arm, as if he believed Lucius would not react to Harry touching someone else in front of him. Lucius lowered his head until his nose touched the back of Harry’s neck and said nothing, but if Harry was wise, he would take warning from the sharp hiss of breath almost in his ear.  
  
“Maybe I will,” Burne-Jones said, and Lucius expected him to follow that with another childish declaration, but in the end he shook his head and gave Harry a helpless smile. “This is just so _strange_. I thought of you one way, and now I have to think of you another way.”  
  
Harry grinned. “And you’ve never had that experience with a painting before? You’ve never started out thinking you were creating one thing, and it changed on you before the end?”  
  
“Paintings and people are different,” Burne-Jones said. “They’re alive in different ways.” He let his gaze drift to Lucius, and his mouth went hard. “I’m going to be watching you,” he said, as if he believed that Lucius had been waiting breathlessly for his declaration of where he would stand in this conflict. “If you make the slightest motion to tell me that you’re hurting or controlling Harry, I’ll take revenge on you somehow.”  
  
Lucius looked back at him, and tried his best to strike a balance between apparent belief and apparent unconcern. In truth, he did not feel threatened at all by Burne-Jones, but showing that would only increase the man’s determination to be a nuisance. “As you wish,” he said. “But I do not intend to hurt or control Harry. What I delight in most, in fact, is when he becomes uncontrolled.”  
  
Harry went into a coughing fit, while Burne-Jones’s gaze turned puzzled. Harry shook his head and towed Lucius to the door. Lucius allowed it because he thought Harry might need to recover a bit of authority in the eyes of his friend at the moment. Lucius had wanted to make that comment, but it _did_ potentially make Burne-Jones think Harry was weak.  
  
*  
  
Being out of Giles’s flat felt like being out of the middle of a raging fire. Harry took several deep, grateful breaths of cool air before he turned around and stared at Lucius. “You just _had_ to do that, didn’t you?” he asked.  
  
“Do what?” Lucius met his eyes and seemed unconcerned.  
  
“Attack him as if he were an enemy.” Harry sighed and began to move down the street. Remaining too near Giles’s door would tempt him to listen in, and as much as Harry was irritated with Lucius at the moment, conversations like this should still be private.  
  
Lucius paced beside him, eyes alert and sympathetic. Or perhaps, Harry thought, glancing at him again, gleaming with a trick of the light that could be taken for sympathy if one was inclined to think so.  
  
“You shoved the fact that we’re lovers in his face,” Harry said. “Yes, I know that you didn’t say much, Lucius, but you don’t _need_ to,” he added quickly, when he saw Lucius opening his mouth to claim innocence. “You can make innocent comments into weapons of war.”  
  
Lucius studied him from head to foot with an appreciative gaze that made Harry have difficulty walking. “That is the nicest compliment you have ever paid me.”  
  
Harry shook his head. He wondered if he would get past the stage of being dazzled by Lucius and thinking that everything he said was a good idea soon. He hoped so. Yes, Lucius was his lover, and yes, Harry had made decisions that he otherwise wouldn’t because of him, and yes, he wasn’t about to back off now, but he hated to think of himself as someone treading on friends because of the sun-glaze in his eyes.  
  
“Regardless,” he said. “There was no reason to antagonize him. He wasn’t threatening to hurt us.”  
  
“Did you not see the look in his eyes?” Lucius tilted his head inquiringly, sending his braided hair sliding down his shoulder, and Harry told his distracting memories to shut up and behave themselves. “He thought of my existence, or rather, my existence in your orbit, as a threat. Whether it was to your friendship with him or how much money you would spend on him as opposed to me—”  
  
“It’s not that,” Harry snapped, and then felt embarrassed for reacting so quickly. _Bloody Lucius. He even does it to me._  
  
Lucius gave him a cutting smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing, and continued, “I would not presume to say. But he wanted to let me know that he considered me so. And you must have felt the edge of it, as well, or else why would you claim that I am not an infection?”  
  
Harry nodded reluctantly. He didn’t want to persist in mindless opposition to Lucius any more than he wanted to persist in mindless adoration. Yes, Giles had been more hostile than would have been ideal, and Harry had not reacted as quickly as he should have because he had been trying to placate him.  
  
But why should he? Giles was not a close friend like Ron and Hermione, not even someone who had aspired to be Harry’s lover in the way that Willowwand was. And Harry’s visit to him this time had been for avowedly political reasons. There was no reason to be hurt because Giles had not done exactly as Harry would have wished, and no reason to hold back on his own strikes once he determined that he needed to use them.  
  
“I do take pleasure from that look in your eyes,” Lucius said. “It means that you are about to say something intelligent.”  
  
Harry glanced sideways at him. “And those things are so rare that you need to celebrate them, are they?”  
  
“I need to celebrate _you_ ,” Lucius said.  
  
 _And then, bloody Lucius does something like this._ Harry shook his head and sighed, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. He didn’t try to grip, just slid his fingers over Lucius’s skin and the cloth of his robes and up to his shoulder. Lucius stopped walking and stood there, looking like a smug cat who had finally received the quantity of petting he thought he deserved.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said at last. “I defended you as strongly as you defended me.”  
  
“Do not claim equality where none exists.” Lucius blinked at him and moved forwards, so Harry had to follow quickly or look like he was tagging behind. _Bloody,_ Harry thought, and then didn’t finish the thought. It had become too familiar to need a final word. “He was more frightened of me than he was of you.”  
  
“But probably more affected, since he knows me better,” Harry said. He wanted to slap a hand over his face a moment later. _Did I really just argue that I threatened someone who’s friendly to me better than Lucius did?_  
  
“Perhaps,” Lucius said, and gracefully changed the subject to something else, the way he often seemed to do when he sensed he was losing. “Now, shall we go see Draco and the Minister?”  
  
Harry bit his lip, hard. He suspected that Lucius would think he was being obnoxious if he laughed, but _really_. Lucius spoke in a way that said Draco and the Minister were guests he had invited over to tea who would fail to show up on time without a reminder.  
  
And then exhilaration reared up in Harry like a fledgling learning to fly, because there was a time not long ago when he would have been unable to imagine taking Superbus so casually.  
  
“Let’s,” he said, and watched the way the hunting gleam glazed the surface of Lucius’s eye.  
  
 _With Lucius beside me, I am stronger._  
  
*  
  
“Come in. Mr. Malfoy.” Superbus nodded to him first, and then faced Harry and gave such a slow and lazy nod that most people would have taken it for an insult and attacked at once, or at least flushed. “Mr. Potter.”  
  
Harry sat down in the chair placed closest to the desk. Lucius might have been amused about that if he had let himself. Harry took up the position of the protector so naturally that he probably would have given Lucius a blank stare if Lucius had pointed it out. Lucius draped himself over the other chair and let his eyes half-lid as he studied Superbus.  
  
The Minister was dangerous. There was no doubt about that. He was clever, and he had more extensive political contacts than Lucius had ever managed to make. (There was only so much that even Malfoy money could do to counter the effect of the Mark on his arm). He spent his time studying opponents before he tried to destroy them. Sometimes he seemed to move suddenly, but those were only the end, visible results of a great deal of slow, invisible planning. Lucius would never tell Harry to regard him lightly.  
  
But at the same time, Superbus didn’t merit the extreme respect with which Harry studied him as he sat forwards on the edge of the chair. His caution was his weakness. He was likely to overestimate his enemies’ readiness, and his very holding off gave them more time to prepare—at least as long as they knew he was coming.  
  
Harry treated Superbus like someone who could annihilate him. But not Harry Potter. Not a man with the kind of casual grace Lucius had seen at work in their conversations and their bedroom.   
  
Not the Chosen One, Lucius’s chosen.  
  
“I heard of the attack last night,” Superbus said, and he looked at Lucius with such an excellent parody of concern that Lucius was tempted to touch his palms together. “I trust you are fully healed, Mr. Malfoy?”  
  
“Of course,” Lucius said, and smiled serenely back into those hawk-eyes that assumed everyone around them was prey. “Mr. Potter here moved quickly, and made sure that I was fully healed even before the Aurors arrived. And of course, his was the magic that stopped my son’s attack in the first place.”  
  
Superbus turned to stare at Harry. Lucius smiled. He knew what he was doing. Putting the fear of Harry into Superbus might be one of the few ways to ensure he would back off, since Lucius doubted that he could persuade Harry to abandon his plan of opposing the Ministry.  
  
 _Not that I would want him to,_ he admitted, as Harry sat up straighter and gave an unconscious little flick of his shoulders that seemed to ready him for battle. _His passion stands to change the wizarding world, and his courage and intelligence give me a reason to hope I will survive it without damage._  
  
“I had no idea you knew such powerful healing spells,” Superbus said, and his voice was blunter, his words truly surprised instead of admiring. He knew the tools that _should_ handle Harry, Lucius thought. It was not—precisely—his fault that they did not work.  
  
“Lucius flatters me,” Harry said, but the statement would only tend to confirm what Lucius had said in Superbus’s mind, because no one as dangerous as he was could be around Harry Potter for five minutes without knowing that he tended to underrate himself. “We’ve come to make a statement about the attack. The Aurors need one, I trust?”  
  
Superbus settled back in his chair and split his focus between them. “There is no need for that,” he said. “We would not have troubled you, since we had other witnesses eager to volunteer in droves. It’s not every day that one sees the Hero of the Wizarding World defending someone who—some say—deserves to be in Azkaban.”  
  
Harry winced at the title, which was of course exactly what Superbus wanted and hoped for, so he would be distracted during the next part of the conversation. Lucky for Harry, he had Lucius there to take over for him.  
  
“It is not,” Lucius agreed. “But it is a sight that will become much more common from now on, since we have become lovers.” He put a possessive hand on Harry’s, not simply because he wanted to do it, but because someone as cautious as Superbus would expect to see some sign of lover-like tendencies before he would believe Lucius.  
  
The Minister leaned back in his chair. Someone unacquainted with his body language might have thought he was figuring out how to respond to the blatant touch, but Lucius could see the minute lines tightening around his mouth and the way that one of his hands bent halfway down, fingers curling in towards his palm, before he made himself stop. He was both shocked and dismayed.   
  
“I am glad that you told me in preparation for the media storm that will sweep the wizarding world when the papers find out,” Superbus said at last. He looked at Harry again. “And what does this statement due to your famous opposition to the Ministry, Mr. Potter?”  
  
Harry had had time to recover, another reason Lucius had moved to startle Superbus. He met the Minister’s gaze coolly, his eyes polished jewels again. “What should one have to do with the other?” he asked with an emotions as close to disdain as Lucius thought he could come, when the subject under discussion was one so personal to him. “Who I take as a lover has nothing to do with my politics.”  
  
Except, of course, it did, but the issue was not one that Superbus could point out without sounding like a bigot himself. He tightened his lips, possibly at the revelation, and plunged on. “As a matter of fact, I am curious about something now that you are here, Mr. Potter. Why did you not attend the meeting on the proposed house-elf legislation?”  
  
“I appreciated the invitation,” Harry said, and his eyes were wide and his shoulders were back, in a posture that made him look like a political innocent. Lucius had never seen him use it before. He stared with narrowed eyes, wondering why. Perhaps it was simply a matter of context. It would not suit Harry to appear innocent at the art exhibitions when he was discussing matters of price and value with a knowledgeable audience. “But I felt it best that someone take my place who was more knowledgeable about the issue than I was. Hermione Granger has spent years studying this. She can speak about the latest studies.” He paused. “In fact, Minister, I think you had a chance to see her expertise at close hand not too long ago.”  
  
Superbus clenched his teeth down on each other, though Lucius could only tell that by the way his cheeks moved. Lucius felt his own fingers twitch. Harry probably hadn’t thought about the words in advance, but he had spun them as smoothly as if he had.  
  
 _We are good together. In bed, yes, but also in politics. I hoped for that without realizing it would come to us._  
  
Superbus was looking back and forth between them two of them now, though he was trying not to make it obvious. Lucius smiled serenely at him, and made a silent resolve. _There is no sense in sitting back and letting Superbus make the first move. Yes, we came here, but that was a challenge rather than a bid for control. I think we shall take as much control of this dance as we can the moment we leave the Ministry._  
  
“I wished you there for other reasons than sheer knowledge,” Superbus said at last.  
  
Harry lowered his head. “But, Minister,” he said in a pleasant, soft voice, “the meeting was to discuss the legislation. Knowledge was required.”  
  
Superbus looked, for a moment, as if he wished he had chosen a different job. Then he managed to assume a smile that had not an edge of pleading to it. Despite himself, Lucius was impressed.   
  
“Do reconsider, if you wish to help keep the peace,” he said. “There are some people who trust no decision of the Ministry unless your voice is involved in it.” He shook his head and reached out to pull a bellrope hanging beside him.  
  
“You don’t need our statements on the case against my son, then?” Lucius asked. He rose to his feet and offered a commanding hand to Harry. Harry ignored it and stood. Lucius smiled and let his hand fall, watching Superbus watch them.  
  
“As I said,” Superbus repeated, in the majestic tones of a man not used to having his preferences questioned, “there are plenty of other witnesses, and there is the word of Mr. Malfoy himself.”  
  
“I would like to see him,” Lucius said, “if possible.”  
  
Superbus shook his head. “The Mind-Healers think his hatred for you excessive,” he said gently. “I could not answer for what happened if you entered his cell.”  
  
Lucius nodded. He had expected the response. They had showed too much open defiance today, and the Minister did not reward those who were not loyal to him.  
  
“Is he in St. Mungos’s?” Harry asked. “Or here, with Healers to see him?” Lucius thought he was probably the only one who knew the meaning of the ripple in Harry’s shoulder then. Draco might more easily escape from St. Mungo’s and threaten Lucius again.  
  
 _If he does, I can handle him,_ Lucius would have liked to say, but he had no intention of saying that in front of Superbus and no time to think of a calm, insignificant set of words that would deliver the message to Harry while hiding it from the Minister.  
  
“A holding cell here,” Superbus said. “He is being well-treated, I assure you.”  
  
Lucius did not actually think that was a lie. Draco would hardly be obliged to Superbus if he was not, and the Minister liked to cultivate favors. And Draco probably still had a few friends in the Ministry who would help him get small luxuries.  
  
“I don’t think there are any questions we can ask, or answer,” Harry said. “We only came to see if we could help you with a correct statement of the case, Minister.” He looked at Lucius. “Are you coming?”  
  
Lucius nodded, though he would have liked to stay a little longer and see if he could intimidate the Minister. Retreating this fast might look like weakness.  
  
Then he remembered he had Harry by his side, and felt like laughing aloud. The Minister did not work with his allies, any of them, even the most formidable, in the way that Lucius worked with Harry. They would eat the strongest defenses that Superbus could present to them.  
  
“I hope you have a pleasant journey,” Superbus said.  
  
He was worried about Lucius’s grin, as Lucius saw from his narrow-eyed stare, and struggling to present a polite façade in the hopes of aiming it away from him. Lucius nodded to him and left the office.  
  
Harry walked at his side, with many glances. It wasn’t until they had reached the Atrium, when he started for the fireplaces and Lucius caught his arm and shook his head, that he gave in and asked the question. “What are we doing?”  
  
“Do you trust me?” Lucius asked.  
  
“As I trust a lion not to bite down when my head is in its mouth,” Harry said.  
  
Lucius smiled to show that he appreciated the metaphor, and said, “Then come with me, and trust me now.”  
  
*  
  
Harry grimaced as he stepped out of the main entrance of the Ministry. The reporters had had time to gather. They eddied back and forth, staring like hungry sharks, and Harry probably would have turned around and walked right back into the Ministry if not for Lucius’s presence at his side.  
  
“Mr. Potter!” someone yelled, waving excitedly. The first camera flash exploded. “Will you look over here, for just a minute?”  
  
“Is it true that Lucius Malfoy is your friend?” someone else called.  
  
That seemed to be the signal for a chorus of shouts to start.  
  
“Your ally?”  
  
“Your comrade?”  
  
“Your lover?” That suggestion won some delighted whistles, and more camera flashes, while some reporters raced along the periphery of the crowd, acting as if they couldn’t find the best place to got a picture of both of them at once.  
  
Lucius’s arm snaked around his chest. Harry felt himself spun around, and he went with it, remembering what Lucius had said about trusting him. He half-wondered if they were going to fake a row. Perhaps Lucius had decided they could accomplish more on their own for now. Harry didn’t like that idea, remembering how good he felt when they were working together, but he had to admit that Lucius probably knew more about politics than he did.  
  
Lucius kissed him.  
  
Harry stood motionless for one stunned moment, and then leaned in and gave it back, wrapping his arms around Lucius’s neck like strangling vines. He made sure to draw back enough that everyone could see _he_ was the one who pulled Lucius after him, and who panted and licked at his lips, before he dove fully back into the kiss.  
  
Stunned silence hung around them for longer than Harry would have thought possible, given their audience. Then people started calling again, and the cameras clicked, and everything was faster and brighter and louder.  
  
They drew apart at last, when Harry’s lungs felt desperate, and Lucius posed there with a possessive arm around his shoulders. Harry did the same thing, heart pounding, wondering for a moment what had happened. Had Lucius just wanted to stake a claim on him in front of everyone, to discourage admirers like Willowwand?  
  
Then he saw the enthralled expressions on their faces, and felt the way Lucius was already tensing to Apparate, and understood.  
  
The currents of the wizarding world were shifting and changing. Harry had sensed that himself, even before he became involved with Lucius. The factions that stood opposite the Ministry were growing more ardent, more independent, and looking for a champion, some sort of signal to begin their charge or a change that they could seize as a pretext.  
  
He and Lucius had just given them one.  
  
It didn’t matter if the change was violent or peaceful, resisted by the Ministry or embraced. It was coming now.  
  
Lucius Apparated them to Malfoy Manor. Harry went with him, panting and gasping and so excited that he knocked Lucius to the floor first thing.  
  
He’d been cautions for so long, because he didn’t want to start a revolution that depended solely on him. There were just too many people around him who deserved to be their own leaders and to promote their own goals.  
  
But now he wasn’t alone. Lucius would share credit for any leadership and any power that fell to him. If people didn’t want that, Harry would insist on it happening.  
  
And he was the signal, more than anything else. Other people would explode in their own directions, exactly as he had hoped, and Harry would be nothing but another part of the wave.  
  
Lucius smiled up at him, eyes full of diamond-fire. “I believe I told you to trust me?” he asked.  
  
Harry bent down and fed him lips and tongue and teeth in a burning kiss.


	10. Dolphin

_Sporting in their joy._  
  
Harry shook his head. The _Daily Prophet_ hadn’t waited. There was a special afternoon edition, and they’d received it immediately, as if the _Prophet’s_ owners had told the owl to fly to Malfoy Manor first.  
  
“Draco won’t like this, will he?” he asked Lucius, who sat on the other side of the table, over a demolished late lunch. Harry found that hard to understand. He was sure Lucius had spent most of the meal reading the paper or watching him, not eating. And yet when he glanced at the table, the food had vanished, bit by bit: delicate eggs, tiny sandwiches, roasted meat of a kind Harry didn’t recognize but which could make his mouth water with just the memory of it now, small fruits like red plums. Harry knew he had eaten some of it, but surely not _that_ much.  
  
He wondered uneasily if he should be getting so used to the luxury that surrounded Lucius every waking moment. It was one thing for Lucius, who had lots of money and didn’t mind spending it, but Harry didn’t want to become pampered, spoiled, or soft. And of course there would be people who accused Lucius of buying him for a few Galleons.  
  
Harry wished irritably that the world outside the walls of the Manor didn’t exist, and that they could simply go back to being lovers—that no one cared.  
  
“Why does it matter to you what Draco likes?” Lucius looked up, and his eyes were direct in a way that made Harry remember their talk about possessiveness from that morning. “He is not your lover.”  
  
Harry paused. “I know,” he said. “But I think I mentioned earlier that I’d like to learn to get along with him.”  
  
“He will not respect a desire for reconciliation,” Lucius said, folding up the paper with neat motions of his hands. Harry watched his fingers in fascination. Once, it would have occurred to him to compare Lucius’s fingers to spiders’ legs. Now he didn’t think he’d found the right metaphor for their slender grace. “He will respect only commands.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “From you, yes. But I think he’d resent that all the more from me. I need to make peace with him.”  
  
Lucius’s face said clearly what he thought of that desire.  
  
“Listen.” Harry leaned forwards and put his elbows on the table, then took them off again. It wasn’t even Lucius’s glare; it was the _beginnings_ of a glare so freezing that Harry didn’t think he wanted to see the whole thing. “I know you raised him a certain way. You’re his father. You’ll always be a part of his life, no matter what. But he sees me right now as just a replacement for his mother. I can’t become more than that if I try to take the same position that you would towards him.”  
  
Lucius’s eyes stirred like silver aspens bending with the wind. Then he said, “Go on.”  
  
“That’s it, really.” Harry offered him a one-shouldered shrug and a quick smile. “This is another reason I never became a political leader. I’m bad at speeches. But I _do_ think that you can’t expect him to just roll over and adapt. He doesn’t have that in him, or he would never have tried to kill you.”  
  
Lucius considered this, face like icy marble. Harry waited again, more confident now that he was learning how to handle Lucius. It wouldn’t do to just refer him to abstract principles, because he would see no reason for obeying them. But show him practical results—in this case, that treating Draco like a child or a servant hadn’t worked—and he was inclined to listen.  
  
“Very well,” Lucius said. “I expect him to be released within a week. Normally it would be much faster, but with you involved and the crime attempted murder, they will hold him for longer. When he comes home, I will arrange a meeting between him and you, if you wish it.”  
  
Harry waited, but Lucius didn’t add one more rider that he thought important. “A _private_ meeting,” he finally prompted.  
  
Lucius gave him a soft smile. “What a curious idea,” he said. “What made you think you would get one?”  
  
Harry looked around for an apple core to throw. Of course, there was nothing left; though the red fruits had looked like plums, they didn’t leave stones. He wondered if Lucius had planned that on purpose.  
  
Abruptly, Lucius jerked in his seat as though someone had snared him on a fishhook and turned. He was staring at the wall with such an intense frown that Harry turned to look at it, too, but all he could see was plain wood.  
  
“Bell!” Lucius called, and the house-elf Harry remembered serving their wine from last night appeared, bowing.  
  
“There is being an angry Weasley at the gate,” Bell said, with a tone in his voice that said nothing like this had ever happened in _his_ time, when Weasleys knew their place. “His red hair is being very bright and his voice is very loud.”  
  
Harry sighed and stood. “Ron saw the article,” he said. “And—well, I reckon he didn’t think we’d announce it like this.”  
  
Lucius nodded and rose. “Give me a moment to dress,” he said, “and I will come with you.”  
  
Harry blinked, wondering what it meant that he had entirely forgotten Lucius was naked, and then shook his head. “I really should meet with him alone.”  
  
“I _truly_ don’t know where you get the impression that I would permit such things,” Lucius murmured, and stepped into his closet. “I am involved in this, as much a part of our hunting pair as you are. I should have a say.”  
  
Harry opened his mouth, then shut it and bowed his head. He couldn’t tell if it was the truth in Lucius’s voice or the words “hunting pair,” which at once dazzled and enchanted him, that made him be quiet.  
  
*  
  
Weasley stood waiting for them in the entrance hall, his arms folded and his frown the most prominent thing on his face, more noticeable even than the ruddy hair. Lucius raised his eyebrows and wondered what it meant that he had noticed the frown first and begun to think of ways in which he could mitigate the consequences that he knew this confrontation would have for Harry.  
  
Then he began to smile. He knew the reason. To deny it would have been as ridiculous as pretending that a piece of canvas smeared with rotting fruit was the same as an accomplished painting, the way that some of the wizarding artists more influenced by Muggles were wont to do.  
  
Harry took a step in front of him as they came down the stairs, apparently assuming he must be an aegis. Lucius rested a hand on his shoulder and enjoyed the way Harry’s skin sheathed his muscles as he murmured, “He cannot harm me unless I will it. Not here.”  
  
“That’s not the only thing I’m worried about,” Harry murmured, tilting his head to the side and giving Lucius’s fingers a swift kiss like the peck of a sparrow’s beak. Then he returned to leading the way down the staircase.  
  
Lucius followed without protest, filling his nostrils with the scent rising from the back of Harry’s neck and his eyes with the way that Weasley set his jaw.  
  
Weasley didn’t deign to say anything until they were standing before him, and even then he looked them over for several moments, as if the Imperius Curse he doubtless feared left some visible trace behind, before he looked at Harry. “I thought you’d let me have some notice before going public,” he breathed.  
  
Harry tried to wince, but Lucius had already dropped his hands to Harry’s sides, fingers splayed out and resting over Harry’s ribs. He held him straight, and Harry sighed as if Lucius’s hands were teaching him how to breathe and responded, “I planned to let you know, too. That was an impulsive move.”  
  
Weasley rocked to the side and turned to face Lucius more squarely, apparently deciding that he knew where the blame should fall.  
  
“No,” Harry said quickly. “Lucius might have made the decision, but I could have pushed him away or issued a retraction, if I wanted to. I want—other things, Ron. And although I wanted to tell you and Hermione first, I’m not sorry that this happened.”  
  
Weasley bared his teeth in an almost abstract snarl, the kind a lion might use when far away from the rest of its pride and wondering if it could take on the massed horns of its prey, Lucius thought. “Why don’t you sit down and explain exactly what happened and what you were hoping to achieve, then?”  
  
Harry glanced about helplessly. Lucius took charge—however familiar Harry might become with his house in time, it was not yet his home—and led them into one of the receiving rooms he kept for guests from the Ministry. Its chilly blue and crystal décor would persuade Weasley not to linger.  
  
Harry settled into a chair. Lucius thought about taking up the position behind his shoulder that he had used with Burne-Jones, but that seemed to inspire challenges in viewers with Gryffindor mindsets, and it was more useful to get along with Harry’s intimate friends. He sank into a couch covered with the luxury of leather—though it would look like blue cloth to a casual glance—and watched from under half-closed eyelids as Weasley accepted a chair not far from Harry’s feet, and cut the distance between them even more by leaning forwards.  
  
“Talk.”  
  
Lucius flexed his fingers, imagining they had claws, but Weasley’s tone didn’t seem to offend Harry. He nodded and said, “I didn’t know that I would end up dating Lucius. I’d spoken to him several times about different matters, and we talked a lot in public, too.” He glanced at Lucius, and his mouth was soft, the skin about it golden. “I don’t know if I could dignify what we did by the name of ‘flirting.’”  
  
“You could not,” Lucius said, “for I never meant it so lightly.”  
  
Harry drew in a breath that softened his mouth still further, and faced Weasley. “Then Draco attacked. We didn’t plan _that_ at all. But I knew it would create a link between us, and I think that I decided we might as well come out now as later. The kiss in front of the photographers was all Lucius’s contribution to the master plan, though.” He folded his hands behind his head and tilted a lazy foot at Lucius, handing over the responsibility.  
  
Weasley refused to pursue the hint and turn towards Lucius, who was already tuning his throat to speak Lion. Instead, he remained fixated on Harry. “You _think_? You didn’t make a conscious decision?”  
  
“Not really,” Harry said. “A bit hard, what with all the good hormones buzzing through my blood.”  
  
Weasley put out a hand to support himself on the back of the chair, not seeming to remember that he was already sitting down. Then he looked wildly at Lucius. Lucius was not sure what Weasley expected to see on his face, but he met Weasley’s glance with a resigned one. He had got used to Harry’s propensity for drama and making large events of small ones. It made sense that his friends were not much different.  
  
“You _didn’t_ ,” Weasley said in an awed voice, but it wasn’t immediately obvious which one of them he was talking to. Harry seemed to take it as addressed to him, and nodded.   
  
“Yeah,” he said. “You were right about one thing, mate. That vow I made never to date or sleep with anyone else again was stupid, and Ginny wouldn’t have wanted me to make it.”  
  
Weasley just went on looking at Lucius. Then he said, “And, to make this clear, you _didn’t_ mean to embarrass Harry or take advantage of his fame by dating him, did you?”  
  
“What would be the point of that?” Lucius asked, and tried not to look down his nose as this arrogant young man who did not understand the value of beauty. Looking down his nose was expected, and Lucius had discovered that he liked bathing in the waters of the unexpected. “I do not like the color his skin flushes when he is embarrassed, unless he is so because of my words or the glance of my hand alone. And I have enough fame to support my line in comfort until the end of time.”  
  
Harry flushed, and Lucius looked at him, not bothering to hide his contentment from Weasley. This was proof of his theory.  
  
Weasley shook his head several times and then screwed a finger into his ear. Lucius made sure to be looking elsewhere when he dragged it out. Earwax was a color that could spoil his mood for several hours.   
  
“I never thought Lucius Malfoy would be the one to bring you out of your funk, mate,” Weasley said to Harry, with a tenderness in his voice that Lucius knew better than to be jealous of and therefore could appreciate for its harmonics. “I didn’t even know that you liked men, or that you would be all right with being in front of the cameras as much as this’ll make you be.”  
  
Harry flushed again and looked up at Weasley. “I didn’t know that either. I promise.” He reached out and touched Lucius’s forearm, fingers sinking into the cloth of his robe as if that would make the moment more real. “I would have tried to warn you, if I knew.”  
  
Weasley smiled. Lucius sought out the position of his wand, and realized that it was still in his robe pocket. “Hermione will still want to talk with you, but I don’t really believe that he could have manipulated you into accepting this somehow, given how strong you are,” Weasley said. The words had a simplicity to them that pleased Lucius, and he wondered idly, as Weasley rose to his feet, if his mother had not had an affair with someone other than Arthur, to give him that iota of grace. “And you look _happy_ ,” Weasley added, in a tone of faint awe. “I don’t remember the last time I really saw that.”  
  
“Me, either,” Harry said. “I didn’t know that anyone could make me that way.” He turned his head, and the words Lucius might have spoken were silenced by the sheer gleam of his eyes.   
  
Lucius had looked at jewelry and leaned away, unimpressed, before. He had compared Harry’s eyes to jewels. That now felt ignorant. Jewels did not _command_ one’s attention in the way that Harry’s gaze did. He meant to say something more to Weasley, but he looked back, enchanted, and forgot the words.  
  
“ _That’s_ what I was waiting for,” Weasley said. Before Lucius could ask him what he meant, he had left the room, and Bell was escorting him out with many loud warnings about not touching any of the Malfoy heirlooms.  
  
“What did he mean, there at the last?” Lucius asked, and did his best to sound as haughty as Harry would have doubtless expected him to. But it was hard to maintain the pose in the face of Harry’s intensity as he stood up, came forwards, and knelt down next to Lucius’s legs.  
  
When Lucius did not even feel superior with Harry on his knees, he knew that this enchantment had gone deeper than normal.  
  
“That he wanted to see I could make you speechless,” Harry said, and leaned forwards to kiss along the side of Lucius’s thigh. Lucius half-shut his eyes. It was as though he wore no cloth and Harry’s lips brushed bare skin to bare skin. A moment later, that became true, as Harry gently pried aside his robes and his trousers in the same motion. “I used to do the same thing to Ginny all the time. I think he’s reassured we aren’t going to hurt each other now.”  
  
“Good of him to be concerned about me,” Lucius said. The words withered away into a gasp. Harry rubbed his nose delicately against Lucius’s knee and pulled his clothes off with slow, deliberate movements, so that even the inevitable awkwardness as they tangled around his ankles did not distress him.  
  
“He knows that hurting my lover would hurt me,” Harry said with his own kind of devastating simplicity, and trailed his tongue over Lucius’s cock. Lucius closed his eyes and let his breath out slowly. Not seeing it did not diminish the warmth of Harry’s tongue, of course, or the way he cupped it around the head of Lucius’s erection.   
  
For long moments, lapping was the only sound that filled the room. Lucius could not hear his breathing or heartbeat under the hum of his own anticipation. He opened his eyes when Harry ceased contact with him, though.  
  
Harry was looking at him with eyes that reminded Lucius of a siren’s he had once seen when he was on holiday in Greece. The siren had watched him out of the water, wild and wanting but not quite daring to come closer, and Lucius would have feared the same from Harry, except that his fingers flexed open and shut again, in rhythm with his breath, on Lucius’s kneecap.  
  
“Beautiful,” Harry said, and then lowered his head.  
  
Lucius wanted to seize and guide Harry’s head, but it was a vulgar instinct, one he refused to give into. Instead, he reached out with one hand and trailed his fingers along Harry’s face, pausing so that he could touch himself through the skin of Harry’s cheek. Harry gasped and sucked even more eagerly, pushing Lucius’s cock back and forth with his tongue and palate, his breath stuttering and shivering and creating a delicious brush of coolness along Lucius’s skin every now and again.  
  
Before the end, Lucius had shut his eyes and slumped low over the couch, his legs spread, and his hips had begun to thrust as he listened to the slippery sounds Harry’s mouth made.  
  
When the end arrived, Lucius drew a long breath that he ended up exhaling again, because he couldn’t fit it comfortably in his mouth. He tilted his head back and resisted the temptation to flop about like a landed fish. He could do better than that—he could—  
  
He could come.  
  
Lucius was sure he twitched as the last spasms played themselves out, and he opened his eyes expecting to find more than a trace of mockery on Harry’s face.  
  
Instead, Harry was looking up at him with an awed expression, as if he had never seen something that mattered so much before, and touching the corner of his mouth with fingers that explored his lips and the taste Lucius had so clearly left behind.  
  
“I didn’t know if I would like the taste,” he said, as though considering. “But I do.”  
  
What was there for Lucius to do after that but to bear him to the floor, push his clothes aside, and take Harry in his mouth?  
  
He could not match Harry’s innocence and charming simplicity, and he would have been a fool if he tried. Instead, he worked his mouth open and held it around the head of Harry’s cock until Harry was sobbing and bucking; then he closed his lips down and slid them slowly up, or down, or both. Harry did not seem to care much about the direction, if the way his hands gripped at air was any indication.  
  
Harry whimpered his name and thrashed with one leg. Lucius moved out of the way and decided that he would not mention the bruise he had sustained on his jaw later. Everyone deserved a chance to have a blowjob like the one Lucius was giving and not be scolded for their inevitable reactions.  
  
His world narrowed down to the pleasure he was giving, the pleasure Harry was almost _suffering_ , if the way he arched his back and cried out desperately told the truth. Indeed, at one point he began to utter incoherent pleas for Lucius to back away or finish him. Lucius paid no attention, and continued the slow, stalking rhythm of a predator teaching its partner to hunt.  
  
Harry gave plenty of warning that he was about to come. He yanked at Lucius’s hair and panted and opened flaring eyes that saw nothing of the world about him. Then he murmured, “You can—I’m going to—”  
  
Lucius kept his mouth in place. While he did not always enjoy the taste of a partner’s orgasm, the intense desire to make Harry _lose_ what he was clutching so tightly, the experience of a life of celibacy, would have inspired him to much greater feats of endurance.  
  
Harry sang a paean to the ceiling as he came, his voice unexpectedly beautiful against the background of the squeaks and rubbing motions his thrusting body made. Lucius swallowed it all, except for a dollop that he leaned over to share with Harry in an open-mouthed kiss. Harry moaned in a broken voice and reached up to touch Lucius’s hair with a limp hand that said he had no strength for anything else.  
  
“I didn’t know anything could make me feel that much,” Harry said, and curled up next to Lucius without opening his eyes. Lucius shifted him and half-carried, half-propelled him towards the stairs. Sleeping in the middle of the day was a properly decadent thing to do, but one should not do it on the floor.  
  
“You have not had the experience before?” Lucius made sure to keep his voice calm and concerned, with none of the almost vicious pleasure he felt. It did not seem that Harry _could_ have reached the age of twenty-nine without someone sucking him off, but it was true that there were some things sexual partners simply did not like to do.  
  
Harry fluttered his eyes open with what looked like a massive effort of will and pointed a finger vaguely at Lucius. With solicitous care, Lucius caught the finger and rearranged it so that it was pointing the right way.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry slurred. Sleep hunted him so fast that Lucius did not think his body would reach the bed before it reached his brain. “Ginny did it, of course. But I’ve never had one from _you_. And it wasn’t my favorite thing when she did it. And it’s been seven years. And I’m tired of talking,” he added with a magnificent lack of care that was perhaps the first casual thing Lucius had noticed about him, and collapsed.  
  
Luckily, the bed was beneath him. Lucius would not have fancied carrying him farther. He spread out Harry’s limbs, and in the meantime, Harry snored with his mouth open and his eyes tightly shut, the motion of the eyelids indicating the dart of dreams. Lucius shut Harry’s mouth and removed the rest of his own clothing, crawling into bed beside him.  
  
It occurred to him, as he pillowed Harry’s head with his arm and Harry’s body with his chest, that Harry might never use the rooms in his own wing if this kept up.   
  
_Bell will be glad that he does not have another place to clean,_ Lucius decided, and shut his eyes.  
  
*  
  
“We should venture out _some_ time, you know,” Harry said, over their morning breakfast of fresh oranges and bread covered with delicately melted butter.  
  
Lucius nodded to him. The _Daily Prophet_ had carried vague, buzzing rumors of a disturbance that morning, and Harry had suggested going out to see what it was about, but Lucius did not seem convinced that anything worthwhile lay beyond the walls of Malfoy Manor. He buttered another piece of bread and ate it.  
  
“I thought this change in the wizarding world was what you wanted,” Harry persisted, leaning forwards and staring hard at Lucius. No one could look that lazy and self-indulgent unless he practiced it. “Don’t you at least want to see what it entails?”  
  
Lucius reached out without looking at him—he was still studying his plate as though it was keeping at least one secret of the universe from him—and stroked down the side of Harry’s knee. Harry shivered and resisted the temptation to simply tilt his head back and give in to it. It felt too good, and they’d done a lot of shagging these past few days. He took Lucius’s fingers in his and squeezed hard enough to get his attention, though not hard enough to hurt.  
  
He thought. The look Lucius gave him, like light reflecting off icebergs, made him reconsider that assessment.  
  
 _I will not let him always rule me._ Harry maintained his steady gaze until Lucius said, “Yes, I wish to see what is happening. But I must consider the best vantage point. There is little to be gained from simply taking to the streets and assuming that we will see Change embody itself in one pair of eyes or hands.”  
  
“Of course not,” Harry said. “But I hardly think Malfoy Manor is the best seat, either.”  
  
Lucius raised their joined hands to his mouth so that he could kiss Harry’s fingers, eyes so warm Harry blinked. He had seen plenty of heat in them lately, and of course coolness was long familiar, but warmth was new.   
  
“But such a _comfortable_ one,” Lucius murmured, and he reached out to touch Harry again, his free hand moving with intent.  
  
“Not open,” Harry said, catching that one, too, and folding it into a complex pattern as he stroked his fingers and palm over the back of it. “Not able to give us views of what’s happening at a distance.”  
  
Lucius cocked his head with the air of a Seer examining multiple possibilities in his head. “I have a pool that one of my ancestors once used for scrying,” he began.  
  
Harry laughed. “Git.” Lucius sat up in his chair, as if he were as surprised by the teasing as Harry was by his ability to tease him, but Harry flowed smoothly past that momentary hitch and spoke on. “Why don’t we go to Diagon Alley? We’ll gauge the mood there. I’ve been able to do that fairly often.”  
  
Lucius’s gaze was a glittering sweep of light from beneath lowered lashes. “Our presence was a catalyst for the change once before. It may become so again if the crowd sees you.”  
  
“I’ve given up thinking that I can somehow achieve a neutral position that doesn’t influence anyone.” Harry admired the lines of the tendons in Lucius’s wrist, the taut pale skin that bore an old, ring-shaped scar. He wondered idly what punishment Lucius had inflicted on the enemy who gave him that scar. He hoped it was long-lasting. “The minute I started to rebel against the Ministry, I prepared the way for something like this to happen.” He released Lucius’s hands and leaned back in his chair to see how he would take that.  
  
Lucius remained immobile for a moment, staring at him, neck turned sideways so that he looked like a serpent startled by unfamiliar music. Then he said, “I had wondered when you would admit and become comfortable with your own power.”  
  
“Admitting is a long way from comfort.” Harry shook his head. “But you’ve taught me that this changeless forever I thought I was building, where I did nothing but advise artists, give the worthy ones money, and mourn Ginny, was a fool’s dream.”  
  
“What would cause comfort with your power?” Lucius was the one who took Harry’s hand this time, turning it over. He touched the center of Harry’s palm with one finger, but didn’t begin tracing any of the lines there, thank Merlin. Harry found it hard to concentrate enough to hold a serious conversation when he did that.  
  
Harry shut his eyes to block out the distracting sight of those hungry expressions, and thought with as much patience as he could muster. Lucius moved his finger an inch, and then stopped again. Harry shook his head. “It would be easier if you would stop distracting me.”  
  
“I am—disturbed—to hear the way I touch you demoted to the status of a distraction,” Lucius murmured, and moved his finger another inch.  
  
“Git,” Harry said again, without breath behind it.  
  
“The Minister will ask you harder questions than that,” Lucius said. “So will the press. You must be prepared to answer them while their camera flashes are exploding in your face and they are watching you eagerly for every sign of a weakness.” His finger slipped again, and Harry almost could have believed that he was doing it accidentally, so calm and proud were his words. “Think of this as training.”  
  
“And it doesn’t demote you to become training?” Harry’s eyes fluttered. He could feel his breath hitching in his chest as though it belonged to another person.  
  
“Not when I choose it,” Lucius said. “Answer me.” He leaned nearer, and his breath whispered hotly, hypnotically, over Harry’s earlobe. “When would cause you to be comfortable with the power you wield?”  
  
“Not compliments,” Harry said; it was like a breath of air gasped in the middle of drowning. He sought to sharpen and focus his mind, to _think_ about what Lucius was saying and not merely react to it, but it was nearly impossible. “You gave me those already, and they couldn’t convince me that I was beautiful, so they couldn’t convince me of something like this.”  
  
“You are like a creature from the stars,” Lucius said at once, voice as warm and serious as honey, “shining in my drawing room.”  
  
Harry laughed and broke free, drawing back his hands to hold them in front of him. He opened his eyes to see Lucius staring at him in frank bewilderment. “I told you,” Harry said, grinning at him, “no compliments. I think my childhood left me immune to them, and good riddance.”  
  
Lucius studied him for a moment. His hands had already retreated to his sides, as if he thought they would look more ridiculous the longer they remained out from his body. Then he nodded and said, “Because people paid you so many compliments in your childhood that you learned to distrust those people and their motives.”  
  
Harry kept his smile in place, but felt his conscience squirm behind the mask. That was not _exactly_ the truth. It was the Dursleys who had made him uncertain and wary when people tried to praise him, and certain that they only waited something else.  
  
But it wasn’t _lying_ to let Lucius believe he was correct. Not lying openly, at least. Lying by omission was different. And he didn’t think that he was quite ready to try and explain the Dursleys to Lucius.  
  
Harry didn’t expect pity from him. He expected a more silent and fiercer protectiveness, and perhaps an attempt to kill the Dursleys. That could be its own problem.   
  
“Of course,” he said.  
  
Lucius returned to the problem they were trying to solve as if this small interlude between them hadn’t occurred. “What do you suggest we do, if not remain in the Manor? We have already gone to the Minister, and doing now could give him more legitimacy in the eyes of those who follow you than we want him to have. We cannot go to make a speech, since you will not become the leader of the forces you have stirred up.”  
  
There was a tone of disapproval in those last words, like too much chocolate in a biscuit, that Harry intended to ignore. “I had something else in mind,” he said. “Walk into the middle of Diagon Alley and see how long it takes them to notice us.”  
  
Lucius waited, and when Harry said nothing else, his eyebrows rose slowly. “I am sorry,” he said. “I thought you had _something_ in mind, not a bit of hot air.”  
  
“I do,” Harry said. “We go and see what will happen if we appear in public. I don’t think we can get a good idea at all, remaining here and reading the articles in the paper and not _influencing_ the course that things take.” He paused when he saw Lucius’s eyes darken with satisfaction and hastily corrected himself, “I mean, be part of events. I meant what I said about not wanting to be a leader or control them.”  
  
“You could be so much more powerful than you are now,” Lucius said softly, lounging in place as he examined Harry with bright eyes. “Do you know that? You could call the dance. And if you did not want the negative publicity that often comes along with being perceived in a position of power, you would not have to have it. I could ensure that you had a position worthy of your talents that no one would know about.”  
  
Harry shuddered. He felt as though he had been picking his way through deep drifts of snow and had finally emerged into a house with a warm fire, only to realize that the flames came from a funeral pyre.  
  
“I don’t want anything like that, Lucius,” he said firmly. “ _Never_. Do you understand me?”  
  
Lucius waited for some time, as if the seconds passing by made Harry more likely to change his mind and not less. Then he inclined his head and gave a slow nod, almost approving. “I understand,” he said. “I will not try to obtain one for you.”  
  
Harry understood the spark in his eyes, the bite behind his words. _I will not try, but if you should happen to come to one on your own, because the crowd wants to honor you, and I have nothing to do with it…_  
  
Harry sighed and ignored the silent addition to that promise. “I think we should venture out and see how our presence reshapes the currents. Who talks to us, who avoids us, what happens if we’re seen.”  
  
“But that is a _good_ plan,” Lucius said, sitting up and looking at him with surprise. “I would have agreed to that the moment you proposed it.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes.  
  
*  
  
Lucius prepared himself carefully for his public appearance. For one thing, beauty stunned people more often than Harry realized, changed their perceptions and manipulated them without a word being spoken. Lucius had the feeling that he would have to get used to more nonverbal manipulation now that he was with Harry, who might frown on the lies of omission and the meaningful silences that Lucius often used to deflect conversations and minds where he wanted them to go.  
  
There were other reasons to do this, of course, Lucius thought, staring into the mirror as he used a fine grey ribbon to bind his hair back. The crowd expected him to be aloof and poised, just as they expected Harry to act heroic. Confusing them now, when they were in a volatile state, was not a good idea. Lucius and Harry were already asking them to accept that the Chosen One and a Death Eater could be lovers. That was enough strangeness. They had to sweeten the impression with one of familiarity.  
  
So. A ribbon in his hair, sleek dragonhide boots, pale robes the color of a mourning dove’s breast. Lucius studied himself critically in the mirror and finally nodded, approving the overall effect. He straightened the hang of one corner of the robe and then turned and walked to the door.  
  
Harry met him there in casual robes, a rusty black that Lucius thought he must have worn many times before. Yes, now that he thought about it, Harry had even worn it to art exhibitions on occasion, though usually the ones where he did not seem to expect to receive either stares or challenges.  
  
“Ready?” Harry asked, and then caught sight of Lucius. He broke into a smile of pure appreciation. “I see you are.”  
  
Lucius would not have called himself vain; he knew exactly how beautiful he was, and he could manipulate the perceptions of that beauty in others’ minds, while maintaining a calmness that defeated all their compliments. But he turned his head now before he thought about it and allowed Harry to see the clean lines of his throat and shoulder; he tilted his head to the side and let his hair slide down.  
  
Harry made a small hungry noise in the back of his throat, and Lucius hoped that he might lose control of himself after all. But though he reached up and pushed Lucius’s hair back longingly, he shook his head as though responding to someone in his head and said, “We don’t have time. I wish we did.”  
  
“Time for what?” Lucius inquired archly.  
  
Harry gave him a sharp look. “I know that you try to cause that impression on purpose, and it doesn’t suit you to play dumb,” he said. “But if we fuck, then I’ll just want to sleep, and it might be another day or two before we get to Diagon Alley and station ourselves where we can be seen. I think we’ve hesitated enough already.”  
  
Lucius managed to keep from twitching as though he had a spider on his shoulder, but it was a near thing. He had never had a lover as frank as Harry, and the lack of softened words to describe what happened in the bedroom was another strangeness for him to grow used to—along with the fact that Harry still did not seem to believe in his beauty, which Lucius had gone to such great lengths to show him.  
  
“As you will,” Lucius murmured submissively now. Only a fool would mistake it for true submission, and Harry eyed him warily as Lucius reached up and laid a hand on his arm. “Are you ready to lead me forth?”  
  
“You can bloody well lead yourself forth,” Harry muttered, but he hooked his hand through Lucius’s arm, as Lucius had wished, and they left the Manor together.  
  
*  
  
Harry found himself taking deep breaths as they strolled down the middle of Diagon Alley, parading without making it look as though they paraded. The air was thick, choked with invisible fog, which invaded the mouth and held the breath back. Harry had never been in the Alley when it was so tense; he didn’t remember even the height of the war being like this.  
  
And yet, “tense” was the wrong word. People didn’t duck furtively in and out of shops as if afraid of being seen offering their business to the “wrong kind;” they walked down the middle of the street with their heads at haughty angles and their eyes bold. Harry found more people nodding to him like an equal than he had had in a month before.   
  
(Lucius bristled each time that happened, but all Harry had to do was rest his palm on the ends of Lucius’s hair, and that stopped. Harry was not entirely sure if that was because Lucius liked the touch or suspected that Harry might pull his perfectly arranged braid out of alignment, and frankly he didn’t care).  
  
He and Lucius found a wall to lean against, and waited. Harry thought the fog had lessened after a few minutes, or perhaps he had just grown used to breathing it.  
  
The one thing he was certain of was that their presence was causing comment.  
  
Eyes came to them, retreated, and came to them again. Wizards young enough to be in Hogwarts stared openly, and once or twice Harry saw one of them start towards him with a determined face, as if to ask whether he knew that he had a Death Eater on his arm, but each time one of their friends hauled them away. Others looked primarily at Harry and shook their heads, or paused and seemed to consider with various degrees of openness what this strange alliance meant.  
  
Risa Turner came out of a shop, her arms full of packages, and caught Harry’s eye. Immediately she made a sharp turn and marched up to him. Harry smiled in spite of himself. Risa had never let things with small names like “propriety” worry her.  
  
“There you are,” she said. “I had thought I’d see you at my studio before now.”  
  
“I’ve been busy,” Harry said. He took a risk then—a risk primarily because Lucius had stiffened beside him and seemed barely able to control his disdain in the presence of a Muggleborn artist. “I’ve learned to make art of my own.”  
  
Risa leaned forwards at once. “What field? What kind of brushes have you taken up? I would recommend Fourier’s for hands as delicate as yours, but I bet you haven’t used them.” She looked at Harry’s nails. “Or penetrated far, or you would have begun to discolor your hands.”  
  
Harry tried, and, he thought, mostly succeeded to keep from laughing at “penetrated.” “Mine is the art of sculpting souls,” he said, and drew Lucius forwards. “I’m sure that you remember Lucius Malfoy.”  
  
“He destroyed a painting he didn’t like,” Risa said with unexpected grimness. Harry couldn’t remember her telling that story. “It might have been ugly, but even Marsha Tennor’s paintings have a right to exist.” She looked at Lucius and then away again, as if she had seen a dog urinating in the middle of the street.  
  
Harry winced. He hadn’t anticipated this collision of personalities at all, and he didn’t know what would happen next. Perhaps Lucius could keep from alienating her, but to do that, he would have to care about her opinion.  
  
Then Harry felt the way Lucius bore down on his arm, and realized there was another possibility.  
  
 _Or he has to care about what I think._  
  
“Forgive me, madam,” Lucius murmured. “I destroyed the painting not because I didn’t like it, but because it violated aesthetic standards.”  
  
“Whose?” Risa glared at him. “Yours?”  
  
“The standards of the viewer are, or should be, the standards of the painter,” Lucius said, and launched straight into a lecture as if he’d been anticipating this conversation. Harry knew it was not so, and that his mind merely worked _that_ fast. Harry pressed close to his side, proud to be with him. “The artist does not leave her painting confined in a room with only the air for an audience. What she creates is only half of what the art really is. To have that other half, it must be in front of someone who can lend it his eyes. And if it offends those eyes, can you say that it should exist? I may have destroyed a painting that cost its artist pain, but by doing so I saved it from the far worse fate of indifference.”  
  
Risa paused as if taken off-guard by that speech. Harry concealed a laugh in his sleeve. Lucius was excellent at spinning nonsense. He would probably have gone into politics if his history hadn’t been so against him.  
  
 _For that matter, he could have made it work, no matter what he’d done in the past. I can only conclude that he never cared enough to expend the effort._  
  
“Would you destroy one of my paintings, then?” Risa asked, moving the conversation back to personal territory, as Harry had known she would do soon. Risa had never been that comfortable with generalities or talking about other artists if there was a chance of personal attention.  
  
“I do not know,” Lucius said, and his voice was the perfect cool murmur—considering, as if he had given this much thought, but not overly invested, as if he really were the objective critic he pretended to be. “I am not familiar enough with your style to know if your paintings exist for me or not.”  
  
Risa, of course, was happy to describe her style, her technique, and her inspirations. She stood there talking with no sign that the heavy burdens of supplies she carried tired her or that her voice was weakening. Lucius nodded back and made occasional intelligent comments. Harry watched the people around them.  
  
Most of them halted and listened to the conversation for at least a short time. Their expressions were baffled, and they hurried away again as soon as possible. Harry withheld his chuckle. Whether it was Lucius Malfoy listening with patience to a Muggleborn artist that shocked them or the entire situation, it was best if Harry didn’t laugh and offend them.  
  
When Risa had run out of words, Lucius shot her with a question that Harry would never have dreamed of asking her. “What do you feel about the Ministry?”  
  
“It provides work for some artists,” Risa said, without blinking. “But I’ve often thought that things would be better if my people depended on patrons like Harry and less on the Ministry. They hardly commission anything large or daring, anyway. You can’t live off them unless you have family connections there.”  
  
Harry watched Lucius with his own puzzlement, carefully concealed, as Lucius nodded and smiled. _What is he doing?_  
  
“Exactly what I thought,” Lucius said, which proved to Harry that, short acquaintance or not, he knew just how to handle Risa. “That’s why I’m thinking of expanding my art patronage, as I have not done in years. I am not familiar with most of the daring and experimental work that takes place outside the art shows, in dusty studios and small rooms where dreams burn brighter than fire. I would appreciate it if you could recommend some artists for me to support and people who might be interested in setting up a foundation that would benefit them.”  
  
Once again Risa was full of names, though she usually had an editorial to add about how one person’s work wasn’t as good as hers or how another showed more promise than commitment to the work. In the end, Lucius had a list of names Harry had no doubt he had memorized as soon as it was spoken, and Risa was bustling away about her next errand, looking sleek and smug.  
  
“Thinking of imitating me?” Harry murmured in Lucius’s ear as they began to stroll through Diagon Alley. Other people eddied around them in comfortable currents, watching them from the corners of eyes and discussing them in loud whispers that they obviously thought couldn’t be heard. Harry was used to the treatment from years of it, or he might have resented it more than he did.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lucius said, eyes narrowed like those of a cat looking into the fire. “You didn’t invent the idea of art patronage.”  
  
“I know that,” Harry said, and fought to keep from flicking Lucius on the side of his head because of the way his voice flicked like a soft whip. “But you didn’t seem interested in it, either.”  
  
Lucius bent his head. His voice was the soft whisper of a fledgling bird in Harry’s ear, and Harry wished it didn’t make him think so much of…other things. “The Ministry’s grasp on the artists is faltering,” he said. “We can detach more of them than ever if we act now. And I’ll let word spread, discreetly, that I’m willing to fund other projects as well as a foundation for artists. People will come to us, and then we can build our own power base on which to stand firm.”  
  
Harry frowned. “I didn’t want to encourage an alternative to the Ministry.”  
  
“What were you doing, then?” Lucius’s fingers slid up and down his arm like someone plucking the strings of a harp. Harry made himself ignore it as much as possible while he thought of the answer.  
  
“I was encouraging alternative _s_ ,” he said. “That way, people could have their independence, but it would be a collection of small projects, which could build their own connections or remain in isolation if they wished. I didn’t want to become another Minister or another leader of some kind.”  
  
“You need not,” Lucius said. “I shall be quite happy to do the work.”  
  
Harry tilted his head and examined Lucius in silence for long moments. He didn’t think he needed to say anything, that his doubt would be plain enough.  
  
“Do you not trust me?” Lucius touched his chest and fluttered his eyes in a way that made blood stir in Harry’s groin. Harry shook his head and swallowed the blood that seemed to have entered his throat, too. Was there anything about Lucius that would _not_ stir him in that way?  
  
And should he be dismayed or rejoicing that he still retained this reaction so long after the first time they had slept together?  
  
“Even if I trusted you completely with power,” Harry said, “there are plenty of other people who won’t. How are you going to gain any foothold in political power because of that? I notice that you haven’t done so since the war.”  
  
Lucius smiled. His eyes were brilliant with it, reminding Harry of the way that water reflected the light of a sunset. “I could have done so,” he said. “I have retained enough contacts in the Ministry and enough cleverness to make the attempt feasible.” He ducked his head in a motion that Harry thought was meant to show off the line of his throat, because there was no way that he could mean Harry to seriously take him as modest. “I simply have not had a cause worthy of engaging my attention and effort before now.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. What about all the people who will distrust you when they see you making a bid for power?”  
  
Lucius looked at him with a calm, ancient gaze. “That is where you come in.”  
  
Harry scowled. He didn’t think Lucius could mean that the way it _sounded_ as if he meant it, but there weren’t many other possible interpretations for those words, either. “I’m not going to engineer the Malfoy family’s rise to prominence again.”  
  
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Lucius said smoothly. “I will have to engineer it myself for anyone to have any kind of respect for me.”  
  
Harry turned towards him with a hiss that sounded even more exasperated than he had wanted to make it. “What do you _want_? I thought that you weren’t—that you didn’t connect political power to being with me.” That was the best way he could voice the sense of confused betrayal moving through him like a whirlwind or a winter wind.  
  
Lucius laid a hand on his arm and stared into his eyes. “I know you have your fame,” he said. “I did not become your lover in ignorance any more than I became one for the sake of your power—your power _alone_. Would you have me close my eyes? Fuck you without thinking about your beauty? Move through the world beside you without thinking about your power?”  
  
“I don’t want to set up another movement opposing the Ministry,” Harry said unhappily. “I’ve always been against doing that.”  
  
Lucius brushed his fingers gently down Harry’s throat and neck. “Because your friends work there?” he asked. “Is this a personal reason?”  
  
“Not only that.” Harry touched his hair and started to run his hand through it, but Lucius’s fingers closed around his wrist, holding it in place. Harry blinked at him. One look in Lucius’s eyes convinced him that he wouldn’t get Lucius to budge, though, so he returned to the more productive subject. “I don’t want to coerce anyone into joining my side. And I don’t think the wizarding community can survive a split like that. It’s too small.”  
  
“To take your objections in reverse order,” Lucius murmured, “the Ministry cannot represent all the variety of interests in the wizarding community, so it is already too big in that sense. Simply setting up a party does not coerce anyone into joining. If they do so and decide that they would rather return to Superbus’s cold embrace, they may.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly. He had _known_ that, but it was comforting to hear the objections spoken by someone who wasn’t him. That lessened his sense that he was setting up something solely to benefit himself.   
  
“And as for your friends—” Lucius lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “I would have considered Granger in opposition to the Ministry already, as worried as she is about house-elf rights.”  
  
“But she works there,” Harry muttered.  
  
Lucius smiled. “My dear, sweet Harry, working for an employer does not mean that you do not despise them with all your soul. It seems to be the normal state of affairs, in fact.”  
  
Harry smiled back in spite of himself. “Let me think about it, all right?” he asked. “It still goes against some of the strictures I’ve put in place on myself for years. And then there’s Ron.”  
  
Lucius tilted his head wisely. “I will leave you time. But think about this.” His finger returned, sliding down Harry’s throat to disappear into his shirt. Harry reminded himself that air needed to get into his lungs one way or another. “We have destabilized the wizarding world. Many are now seeking a place to go and do not have one. We would be offering them something stable with this ‘side’ of ours, this faction or party, group or ideal. And perhaps we owe it to them for consenting to the destabilization in the first place.”  
  
Harry scowled at him. “I know you’re manipulating me.”  
  
“But like my kissing,” Lucius whispered, bending low, “I do it so well that you find it hard to resent.”  
  
Harry, as he was soundly, searchingly kissed, had to admit the truth of that.


End file.
